Poulet au Vin.

When I used to be on dating sites, my name was pouletauvin. It was the sexiest French phrase I could think of, literally meaning, hen in wine. You might have thought that I would choose coquauvin (rooster in wine) because there is a sexual innuendo (coq! Oh you naughty squirrel!), but no. Clearly, I don’t like to be vulgar.

I found pouletauvin was useful because it attracted farmer types. People who were good with hens, roosters and collecting eggs.

Well, now, I’m a happily married urban farmer and I no longer need to use a screen name, except on all the QAnon sites I belong to (je rigole! c’est un blague! geez don’t form an angry mob or something.).

Tonight I am cooking, mon petite chou, you guessed it: coq au vin.

Am I good at cooking coq au vin? Define “good.”

Do I follow directions exactly?

No, of course not.

This is not why the famous pouletauvin is a James Beard awarded chef. It is precisely because she doesn’t really care what the recipe says.

If the recipe from David Lebovitz says to: separate the chicken into eight parts, does the pouletauvin seperate it?

Non!

But, does she do it eventually at a later, more weird stage when the chicken is super hot? When it is slippery and it feels a bit more like murder?

Oui!

Pourquoi?

We really do not know.

How do we know the madness of the French chef? How can we question her methods?

Did the pouletauvin yell at Vincent when he offered her a French recipe? Bien sur! Did she later regret refusing the help and then asked him to come back out into the kitchen to help her figure out how you “cut bone?” Oui!

So, I felt a lot like Julie in that famous cooking blog movie, Julia and Julie. Only I felt like more of a hipster, feminist rather than a New York City insurance (? some kind of office with cubicles) agent. Why? Because I had previously named myself pouletauvin on dating sites and went on dates that involved milking cows and putting seed down. Also, I haven’t received like 4,000 calls from publishing companies that want to publish my blog into a book. This part is surprising.

I have not eaten the coq au vin yet, but I did mention that I was cooking it at party I went to on Sunday night. By party, I mean five people standing far apart from each other in our pod, one was vaccinated and we were all slightly terrified we would get covid. So, yeah, “party.” There was some confusion about why the French used a rooster and Americans used a hen. I also noticed that two of my American friends didn’t in fact know what a hen was. Does this mean that Americans are so disconnected from their food source they don’t even know basic barn yard vocabulary? Je ne sais pas.

I do know that we spent a lot of time translating the sounds animals make in French and English.

And, that’s how I will leave you, much like how I ended my dates with the farmers.

The American Rooster says: Cock-a-doodle do!

Le Coq Francais dit: Cocorico!

It’s amazing that none of those dates produced a love match.

FIN.

The one where Le Poisson Nage Becomes a Satirical Cooking Blog.

Am I professional chef? Yes.

Do I work at a Michelin star restauraunt? Obviously.

Did I win a James Beard award? Multiple. I won so many I had to declutter them when one stopped sparking joy for me.

Do I know both the word “duck” and the word “confit?” Bien sur.

Do my friends called me Jacques Pepin? Yes, they do and I have to tell them to stop because come on guys, I mean, I’m a modest person.

So, obviously I am going to start a cooking blog about French food. This goes without saying.

And obviously, if you are anyone who wants to start a cooking blog, you have to start with a French ingredient.

So, I start with the leek.

Les Poireaux

The simple leek.

It looks so unassuming and yet it is so full of Frenchiness. It is a beautiful vegetable. Green and virulent. Strong, yet when you make a soup out of it, it will help you magically lose weight–according to Mireille Guiliano’s French Women Don’t Get Fat.

So, being an unusually accomplished chef who has learned everything she knows because of her extensive training with the podcast Home Cooking, watching the television series Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat and The Great British Bakeoff, plus reading David Lebovitz’s My French Kitchen, today, I got to work with three leeks I had in my fridge. I made what I like to call, “Le Poche de Poireau.”

I decided to mix some goat cheese, bacon and leeks with le poireau and wrap it up in some leftover phyllo dough I had.

Le bacon.

You may be wondering, mon Dieu, she’s a genius. Did she go to Cordon Bleu?

Well, mon amie, the name of my first born son is Gordon Blue. So I think that answers your question. Doesn’t it?

I chopped up the onions, careful not to chop mes doigts (fingers). I did not want my kitchen to turn into a bloodbath.

Those knife skills! Incroyable.

Then I chopped up the leeks and put everything into my hot Les Creuset pan. I received this as a wedding gift because my parents’ friends knew I would need it. They figured that I needed my kitchen to have the best of the best. Le meilleur! And, also, they wanted me to look like a millionaire! Because who trusts a cook who cooks with peasant pots and pans? Not me! Pas moi, mon cher. Pas moi.

Anyway, the little pockets came out of the oven with smiles on their faces, ready to be eaten by my French friend, Marc and of course, my French husband, Vincent. My other friend Eric will also be eating it, but who cares what he thinks? He’s an American and wouldn’t know the difference between Brittany and Normandy! He wouldn’t know the difference between the Sun King (or as I like to say, Louis Quatorze) and Louis 16.

Did I want Marc and Vincent to like these hors d’oeuvres so much that they tell Brigitte Macron that Americans are actually amazingly knowledgeable about food?

No. Of course not. That would be absurd.

I just wanted them to think that this American, this one, lone, great American, (dare I say the greatest American?) knows how to pocket those leeks like Julia Childs herself.

And so, I am off, to drink mulled vin and eat my leek pockets with my friends over a hobo fire while staying six feet apart from one another. Goodnight. And good luck. This is where we say au revoir.

FIN.

Are Americans really that friendly? Or are the French secretly super chipper?

Not to brag or anything, but I have a lot of European friends. A LOT. I get invited to parties at European soccer bars all the time. Uh duh, I speak A-2 French and wear lipstick reminiscient of the allied troops during World War 2. This is not surprising.

I like my European friends because, even though they do complain about some many things they don’t like about America, they tell me all the time how friendly Americans are. I always find this surprising.

Quoi le putain? Friendly? Us? We hate immigrants. The last four years have been spent talking about building a giant wall around our country. We actually call human beings “illegals” and then try to keep them out of our country, even though our country is founded by “illegals.” How can this be that they think we are so friendly? Guys, we are assholes. How can you not know this?!

Honestly, I don’t really know why they think we are so friendly. I think they would probably explain it by saying American culture is “simple” and therefore friendly. However, American culture is not simple. American culture is crazy. What the heck is American culture anyway? Big cars and hamburgers? I drive a VW golf and am a vegetatarian. Ergo, am I not an American? J’espere que je suis americanne.

But, guess what, every European I know: FRENCH PEOPLE ARE SECRETLY REALLY FRIENDLY.

Aha!

I have a perfect example.

Last Christmas, I went to an extremely fancy dining location. So fancy that other people make food for you. Yes! And they have these people called “servers” who bring you the food. You probably forgot that places like this used to exist, but they did. They were called: restaurants.

Anyway, we had this very tall, very thin French waiter. I don’t know his name. Maybe this does prove to all the Europeans that Americans are really friendly because American servers always tell you their name and then by the end of the meal, you are like, “Oh this is Robert and he is my best friend who brings me my food. Yes, there is an inverted power dynamic in our relationship because I give him money, but honestly, we are good pals.”

In France, the servers don’t tell you their names. Well, at least, this guy didn’t. Maybe he didn’t want me to google stalk him and then message him later. Typical.

Anyway, every time I gave him something: my menu, my plate, my other plate, my glass, blah blah, he would say, super loudly, “MERCI BEAUCOUP!” And then he would smile really big and bow.

Yes.

Every single time.

To the point, where I, a simple, overly friendly American, was laughing out of discomfort.

So. French people are really friendly. Case. In. Point.

No, let’s be honest. This guy was a total exception to the culture. Americans are weirdly friendly. The other day, my dad waved to this guy in the restaurant and then that guy waved back and I said, “Do you know him?” And then my dad was like, “No, but now I do!”

We can’t help it. We just like knowing people. It’s our insatiable need to be well-liked. The French don’t really have this problem.

Oh, slam!

French don’t like to be well liked because they are so snobby. Classic French joke.

No, the French are pretty cool.

You should see these European soccer bars. You probably don’t remember this either, but you used to be able to go into places and drink beer and then like kiss whoever you wanted on the cheek and then you could smell their beer or smoke breath and it was amazing. Those were the good old, non-pandemic days.

Okay, everyone. Good luck and good night.

Also, I’m killing it on Duolingo. I have to go and try to beat Malou who has 335 XP. I have 140XP. Wish me luck.

FIN.

I need to be an American again.

I’ve recently made friends with two founders of a company here in America. They are originally from an undisclosed country. Let’s say it’s somewhere between Prussia and Ireland. They are incestrual siblings who are makeup influencers on Instagram. Lots of blush. Sticky lipstick. Sparkly eyes. That kind of thing.

Anyway.

That part is not that interesting. Incestrual siblings. Who cares, anymore. Man, our president has orange skin and recently told us to drink hand sanitizer. #wtf

What I want to know is if I’m still American. Or what is an American?

These siblings were telling me that they don’t like certain things about America. I find this hard to believe. Our country is so calm and peaceful. It’s so relaxing to listen to the news. Move over, Sweden, we are totally taking your spot as “chillest cousin.” Pass the joint over here, sistah, because we are so relaxed we are like making all the other countries put little yellow flowers in their hair.

I’m kidding. Je rigole.

America is nuts. It always has been. We started off with a revolution. Then we had a civil war. Then the wild west didn’t really end until World War 1 and World War 2 and then it started back up again, about three years ago in 2016 when a certain election happened.

So, what is America? What is “an American?” God, who am I? Should I try to get in this throuple with the incenstrual siblings? Game of Thrones made it looks sort of okay. No. I can’t. It’s just too weird. Sorry, guys. But, I will take some of that make up that was made in China out of rat urine. That seems really cool.

American food. What is it? Fast food? Big portions? The siblings insist that “an American” is a big, fat, white guy who eats McDonalds. When I think of an American, I think of Miles Davis. When I think of American food, I think of avocados and Alice Waters. I think of Ithaca, NY and delightful hippies in straw hats harvesting their own vegetables in their backyard gardens with their husbands who are all named Pete and are university professors. Is this America?

Or is America the show Transparent? Is it American Jews who have transgendered parents? I feel like that’s America. That’s closer to America. But, how can I explain it to the siblings? And, God, it’s so annoying they want me to buy this make up all the time when I’m scrolling through my Insta feed. Lay off the mascara demos guys. I DON’T WEAR MAKEUP; I READ BOOKS! Actually that’s not true. I wear a lot of make up. The kind Queen Elizabeth wore in the 1800s. Thick, powdery make up to hide my pock marks. Yes, it’s true. That’s the only true sentence in this whole piece.

Anyway. I have no idea what America is. All I know is I’m about to go camping and I just got a fishing license and I want to go out there into America’s great big wilderness and explore and conquer and befriend indigenous persons in the fur trade and eat fish together at night and complain about how horrible Prussia/Ireland is! This is what I want. Wish me luck.

FIN.

Kyle.

What’s the point of doing things if you are not going to be the best? Amiright?

I’m an American. I want to not only learn French, but I want to be the best French learner. I want to be number one. I want to wear my swim trunks with the American flag on them and jump into the lake in the best way. I want everyone to look at me and go, “Wow, her country is the BEST! It’s the best one. There is no doubt. Move over England, America is awesome. Ask Prince Harry. He moved here with our main girl Meghan. Come on. This is no coincidence.”

This is how I feel on Duolingo. I want to be in spot: numero uno.

Unfortunately, there are three people ahead of me: Manarie, Bakugou and Kyle.

Realistically, I’m not going to beat Manarie or Bakugou but I’m pretty sure I can take out Kyle.

Kyle only has 500 points. The other two have thousands of points.

So, I spent the morning trying to beat Kyle.

This is a very common American experience.

Yesterday, my husband was making gazpacho. I was like, “Is that a French thing? Loving gazpacho? Because every time I talk about gazpacho Americans are usually like, ew cold soup. What’s the effing point, man?”

Then Vincent (husband from Lyon, food capital of France, yet doesn’t cook that often in our house because he works a job that “makes money”) says, “Well, you don’t come to America for the food.”

YOU. DON’T. COME. TO. AMERICA. FOR. THE. FOOD.

What the heck.

Um, hello, Alice Waters, sorry that my husband just insulted your entire movement of new American cuisine.

But, yeah, that’s probably accurate. You don’t come to America for the food. You come to America because some part of you, some secret little part of you, wants money. You want to be the best. You want to win!

You come to America so you can learn French and you can beat people like Kyle.

Which I did. This morning. So, now I’m in third place. This isn’t first place, obviously. But, it’s pretty good. And I beat all those other suckers, so AHA! I’m about to put on my American flag swim trucks and crack open a Molson Canadian because that’s what Americans do: drink other countries’ beer!

It also should be noted that after I spent an hour racking up points to try and beat Kyle I checked my email and found an email from the meditation center that I go to. I love this meditation center because I am kind of a Buddhist.

I felt sort of guilty. Like, maybe I am operating with too much ego. Like maybe I should go back to American Transcendentalism and take a deep breath and just relax and not be in competition and live a peaceful existence in line with nature and maybe I should visit Walden pond some more and think about Thoreau.

And maybe I shouldn’t want to beat Kyle so much.

I don’t know the answer.

But, I will say that I’m pretty happy with the by product of all this winning: how good at French I am getting. Some day, when this pandemic is better and the World Health Organization (which America isn’t even part of anymore because, let’s be honest, who needs public health right now! Not us! Not this guy!) helps find a vaccine, I’m gonna go to that little beautiful, froggy country and I’m just gonna knock their socks off. Their baguettes are gonna spin! Like, they are going to say, Wow, I am so glad Kyle didn’t come over here. I’m so glad Alexis did. Because Kyle only got 500 points and Alexis has 513 points. What an amazing person. And then I’ll just be running up and down their winding, medieval streets chanting, OH LA VACHE! JE GAGNE! (Holy cow! I am winning!) And I’ll have brought a soccer ball with Kyle’s face on it and I’ll kick it, hard and triumphantly and I’ll be like, “I AM AN AMERICAN AND THE WINNER OF EVERYTHING!” And that will be glorious.

FIN.

American Pillows

I like comfort. I have insoles for my shoes. I have blankets on my couches. I wear wool socks in the summer. I am American.

My live-in-French tutor who is also my husband who is also a horrible French tutor wonders why I have four pillows on the bed. He thinks this is “too many.” I think his “beard” is “too long.”

Why do Americans insist on having pillows? I don’t know. Why do we always want to be comfortable? I don’t know. What are we afraid of?

Maybe we are just afraid of what will happen if we don’t have pillows.

I think if we don’t have enough pillows we will feel like we are missing some kind of comfort that is owed to us. Like when you see Americans who own gigantic cars. Isn’t it our constitutional right to be comfortable? Isn’t this the premise of the “snuggie” blanket sweater sold on QVC?

The French like small things. The French themselves are very small. I could easily take my husband in a street fight. In fact, sometimes I wait in the alley that is my driveway until he’s done gardening and then I’m like, “Hey. You. Get outta here! I’m gonna slice your throat.”

And then he’s like, “Oh hey.”

And I’m like, “Hey. Do you want to grill chicken for dinner? Because you should probably start the grill now. I made a salad.”

Speaking of the BBQ, we used to use a big grill with propane, but now we just use a tiny charcoal grill. My god, am I becoming French? Is my French tutor slowly changing me. How much am I paying this guy? I just realized we used to live in a big house in the suburbs but now we live in a smaller apartment in the city and next year we will sell my car. Oh la la! The French are invading my lifestyle. I heard that their president was on a flight somewhere and he was so small that when they checked the cabin all they saw was one little peanut. Later, they realised it was the president. (this story is not true in any way). But, OH MON DIEU, my French tutor is moving in and stealing all my silverware. I should have checked his references more carefully!

But, no. Mais, non. My French tutor is actually a little owl in a yellow track suit. It’s Duolingo. I use it every morning. It’s very rewarding to practice French. I like the “stories” that Duo provides because they always have a classic French twist. A kind of dad’s joke at the end that gives me a good early morning (11am-ish) chuckle.

Like this one. Here’s the plot: A man has an interview scheduled and so he walks into a store and wants to buy shoes, chausseres, and a veste, a jacket (although in my head it just sounds like vest, so I think he is kind of like a cowboy). He buys these things and the woman asks him where he is having the interview. He says, “My favorite store!” and she goes, “Oh, vraiment?” (really?) and he’s like, “Yeah, this one!” I don’t totally get this story because what is this man’s class and age. In the story, his voice sounds like he is a corporate executive, so maybe he is having an interview at the corporate headquarters for this GAP or whatever. That would be weird. I picture these corporate executive types as totally different from the people who shop at the stores. He is buying a jacket and new shoes for this interview but it’s at a retail store. Is he trying to be a clerk? Maybe he should be saving his money instead of spending all of it at the store? Also, when is the interview? Tomorrow? Or later? Will the manager think this guy is a total suck up. I recently learned, from my French friend, how the French say “suck up.” It’s super impolite translated. It’s something like “suice-balles.” My French friend translated it as “sucks balls” in his whatsapp text to our group of friends. I was dismayed. I hid in my pillow. Sometimes it is better not to translate French things word for word.

Anyway, I have to get going. The cushion on my desk chair needs to be fluffed and I think I need to go take a nap in my bed with four pillows. Maybe I will turn the air conditioning on. I know the French don’t really have A/C, but, je deteste les francaise et leur l’attitude! I can hear my French tutor on his phone call with his “real job.” He is telling me I am “not the quietest person” in the world. Maybe not, French tutor, maybe not. But, I am the most comfortable.

I have all the side effects of being pregnant without being pregnant, which is obviously amazing.

There is this song I like.  It’s from the Netflix show “#blackAF” It’s called “Win” and it’s by Jay Rock.  The lyrics I like are just him saying, “Win! Win! Win! Win!”

I like this song because:

1. It’s cool
2. It describes some intricate part of myself to myself
3. It’s very American

There is another line that says, “You are either with me or you dis me, ho!” I like this line because I’m a feminist. So, obviously, I just quickly reclaim the word “ho” and use it to describe closed-minded men in either restrictive political systems or fraternities at elite schools. I have known many hoes in my life. Some of them are running countries as we speak. Oh snap.

Okay. So.

I’m 37 years old. I’m a woman. Everyone wants me to be pregnant. The general narrative of this time of my life is: you should be having kids and you should be having them biologically.

I’m too tired to resist this part of my culture. And also, I really like kids and enjoy the Montessori model of child development.

Okay, so you’ve got all that.

The problem is that I have some mysterious disorder in addition to my known disorders that prevents me from achieving pregnancy. So, I am not “WIN! WIN! WIN! Winning.”

I have felt for the last two years kind of like a giant loser. This may be because the president of this country I know about sees the world as losers and winners. I don’t believe in this unless you are literally in a game of sports where there are actual winners and losers.

And, to that point, I used to play lacrosse and I was really good and I love field sports so I have a lot of memories of winning. I just don’t buy into the metaphor for people. We are humans. Beautiful, flawed, complicated. Not losers. Not winners. We are systems of molecular biology tango stepping through our lives, yelling at one another at gas stations or outside the doors to our homes or maybe we are kissing at night, inside little jungles of light where we can hardly see each others’ eyes. We are:

hearts beating
dove cries of loneliness
wild minds racing.

So. Let’s turn it back on over to the main narrative stream.

I have two symptoms of a pregnant person:

• I have gained 10 pounds (it looks exactly like a mama belly, please don’t say bump. I will vomit, on purpose, all over your Mercedes Benz if you say bump. Please don’t talk about celebrities. Please put the paparazzi out of their jobs. The market works because there is demand. Don’t care about fame or fortune. Believe in something bigger. Like silence. Like night time. Like the moon. Like the astronauts out there all alone, coming home now from the moon. Was alone. Is now alone. Will be alone during quarantine. Calculating a way to turn loneliness into solitude. All the charts and graphs and maps of the world and all we need to do is look up to the planets to see how connected we are all done here on Earth.)
• Sometimes while running I’m just like, oh okay, that’s cool: I’m peeing.

So, this is what I want to talk about today. Bathroom habits.

I think I have some kind of Freudian obsession with bathroom habits because a lot of my writing centers on piss and shit.

Why is this? I don’t know.

Maybe:

1. Hollywood teaches many bizarre things in their movies. One of them: women have to pretend they don’t eat or shit. I find this disturbing.
2. Bathroom jokes are funny and kind of beautifully innocent. I really like it when kids make jokes about farts. In my white, middle class, American-British culture, growing up there was this rule: don’t talk about farts. Whatever you do: do not talk about farts.
3. Because I don’t have a regular job and because I don’t have a corporate sponsor for this blog, I can write about whatever I want and change my “brand” week to week (or even mid-blog post!), so I like the freedom of being able to discuss the fact that an intrical part of long distance running involves balancing how much water you drink with how much water you piss. Last year’s half marathon included a trip to the loo for me. This added four minutes to my time. This put me over two hours. I don’t really care about the time, but it is interesting to me that while planning for a race, I have to think strategically about urine.

The only solution I have to this problem is actual medical attention, but come on, I’m an American. My health insurance is like dating someone who is trying to head-f*** you into believe you are less than worthy of all things glorious. Therefore, instead of actually going to, oh I don’t know, a UROLOGIST, I

buy things.

I buy pads that are made for pee. These things are great. Giant diapers. Four inches thick. Beautiful! Just beautiful. The packaging shows the white underwear, bum of a white woman who reminds me of your boring Pottery Barn friend who has named her children and her crazy golden retriever all “Kelsey” or some other totally inappropriate, Irish dog name*

*here’s a little advice, if you’ve made it this far. Name animals short names that sound like gut sounds, rather than mythical elf names. Name pets things like “DONUT” or “GUNSHOT” or “DUG JENK.”) The animal identifies with this. Like, “Aha! I am STINKO! When they stay STINKO they mean me. I am STINKO!” . There is no credible scientific research to this, but it is from my own experience. I have also observed that there is a point in a family’s lives where they have to walk their dog while also having just had a baby and they look absolutely exhausted by this thought. Therefore, if you are a 25 years old human right now, be really cautious about getting a dog during your child-bearing years. And if you do get a dog, please name them something beastly.

Where was I?

I have no idea. I feel like this is sounding angry, when I was trying to be funny. I feel like you aren’t going to adopt that rescue dog now. Man, maybe you should. Or, maybe you should adopt part of your highway. I don’t know. There are lots of choices in this world.

I’ve had a lot of coffee today because I got to be interviewed by this cool friend I have who actually is pregnant. I feel very happy for actually pregnant people.

I also feel nervous for them too because I am in the adoption process and I want to make sure that women who are pregnant but don’t want to be mothers in the traditional sense, and they don’t want the psychological toll of an abortion or it’s too late or whatever the situation, I want them to know that there are so many good options. I hope I can adopt a baby and also feel connected to a woman, and possibly a man, who has just made a harder decision than anything political. The decision to carry a baby to term and birth them and then sign a contract with strangers who will raise that baby into their own child: well, wow. Total wow. This actually happens. Like daily. The world is a beautiful place.

This is the point: I’m not perfect (clearly) but I am trying my best, and yet the other day I was hiking and I just started peeing my pants and I was wearing one of those giant diaper things from Mandy Barnett and her dog Finnigan and her kids Collum and Colin and you know what?

It worked.

It absorbed all my extra h20 and urea.

Imagine that.

“Win. Win. Win. Win.”

FIN.

Unlikeable Women

You know who I adore: unlikeable women.

Les femme qui n’est pas gentille. J’adores cette.

Comme une femme dans mon cartier: Judy. Elle est forte et elle est dangereux!

This is wonderful.

She calls me by a secret name I give to people who scare me, but who I find useful. Elle est trés useful.

Judy est jolie. Trés jolie. Trop jolie pour cette monde. Pour sa maison.

Judy a un chien. Il est blanc. Il est adorable, comme une petite human.

FIN (part 1)

You know who I also like: straight men who tell me how straight they are.

I like men who say, “I am straight. Really straight! Super straight.”

I also like jokes about  dicks. . .no, blood. No, really, I like jokes about blood. I’m giving blood today. Wish me luck. I’m scared the American Red Cross will be mean to me, but I love unlikeable women so this will be wonderful.

J’adores les gens qui a le savoir connaire qui ils sont. Cette sont les gens pour moi.

Et, maintent, you must practice your French because the more work we all do together, the more we get done.

Good, Better, Best. Never shall I laugh. Until the Test is Over. And La Monde est Le Best.

FIN (part 2)

practice your French. Je voudrais parler avec toi.

Care for a puff, dahling?

C’est tres drole fumer, est-ce que? Je sais.

Ici, pour toi: https://www.cdc.gov/tobacco/data_statistics/fact_sheets/fast_facts/index.htm#cigarette-smoking

 

Mais, quoi?

 

Le stress, bien sur!

C’est le meme for the spire. Quelquefois, je ne peux pas spire. C’est difficile pour moi.

Mon cartier est une petite dangerux mais le trens voudrait aide moi parce j’adore le tren en Europe.

D’accord! Allons-he BLUE!

 

Salut, mes amies 🙏🌬️⛩️

Hey. How goes it?

Pour moi, je suis très fatiguée parce que j’ai stressée. Mon cou est problématique.

I don’t know if I just wrote my ass is a possible or my neck but I mean my neck.

J’ai une thé de Angleterre et some oranges from Aldi’s.

Le remedy pour moi, now.

I also have a little Russian blue chat qui m’adore. Je t’aime toi, mon chat, aussi. Mais, c’est difficile être la mère de une chat ou un pays, je voudrais imaginer.

D’accord. Bon chance avec ton travail aujourd’hui. Pax.

Fin.