What's eatin' Zubides

Our femme de ménage, the illustrious and oft-spoken about Zubida, is in a huff today. Is there a problem with the engaged-to-be-engaged engagement with Mohammad? Is she offended that the amount of empty wine bottles in the house has multiplied since our return to Pascal's? In my pursuit to discover what's irritating our easily affected friend, I am discovering perhaps it is time for me to get a full time job.

Denny, I have been reading, reading, reading my days away

"By now I was beginning to form some generalizations about the International Set (not that I ever even found out if they were the Real Thing, I mean what standards would I have to judge them by anyway?). First of all, though very few seemed to be married at the time, they were all passionately involved with one another, This had a way of making conversations rather difficult. For instance, when one of them began talking to you it was impossible to predict which of the others was going to get sore. And the reason they got sore was that it was assumed that the one talking to you was also making a pass at you, and the reason that was assumed was that it generally was true. And the reason it was generally true, was that they had nothing else to talk to me about. Past parties-past and future parties, resorts in and out of season, their own lineages, and those of their friends were their only real contributions to a conversation, except for the one that went "I was in America once..." and then petered into a series of place names, so that by making a play for me I suppose they felt they were keeping their end up. Another thing about them was the way they kept inviting you places; they invited me to a different place on an average of every five minutes, but I discovered there were two rules of governing this: first, it had to be a place you'd never been to, like "What, you've never seen the Blue Grotto? I must take you there on the yacht this summer"; and second, it was understood that each invitation canceled the previous one- I'll leave you to guess what the very last one always was."

-the Dud Avocado, 1958

Sally Jay, you explain so much! I have a proclivity to reading literature that idealizes wherever I am living. I ready John Fante and Charles Bukowski when I moved to LA (okay, so they don't exactly romanticize the city, but somehow it did the trick) , switched to Paul Bowles and Gertrude Stein for Morocco (again, maybe they didn't paint the best picture and Mom almost didn't let us go after reading The Sheltering Sky) and now Elaine Dundy is almost convincing me to move to Paris.. in the 1950s. Well, Ms Dundy, thank you for explaining why Julia and I keep invited to go places, never with a follow up call, and why the married and "taken" men of this international set seem to continue to omit mention of very significant others. Oh, le Maroc!

Love you dearly,
I really do,
MM

file under good ex boyfriends

Dear Denny,

You remember Amir and Jon from our glory days in LA? Well the boys of Jogger have been featured as Urb magazines top 100 new artists for 2009. Alas, I know not what Urb magazine is, but I swell with pride all the same. The handsome duo are off to tour Europe this month after a hot gig DJ'ing a Valentine's Day Dance at Princeton University. Well, finally Julia and I are to live out something of every girl's rock star (groupie) fantasy. Penny Lane. Thanks to Mr Mark Stinson, a clip of dialogue:

William Miller: You said we were going to go to Morocco. There is no
Morocco. There's not even a Penny Lane. I don't even know your real
name.
Penny Lane: When we go to Morocco, I think we should have completely
different names and be completely different people.
William Miller: What will our names be?

Yes, maybe it had something to do with us moving to Morocco.. And now, we are scheduling (albeit carefully, impulsively is not a trait of our American selves) to follow the band. This blog may really change directions now that we are band girls. Oh dear, I though I gave up boys-in-bands-in-tight-pants-who-prefer-whiskey-to-me during my Wesleyan Days.


Inside of your heart,
Megan Marion Lane

Wowee-wowee

Hi dude,

The sun has finally returned to Morocco after an unprecedented ten days of non-stop rain. Let me tell you, ol' boy, this town is not equipped for that much rain. The streets were constantly flooded and there wasn't a roof sans leak in sight. We celebrated le retour de soleil yesterday with a Sunday Funday that involved eating various fatty things in different outdoor locations (chicken sannies and Rose by a pool, chocolate fondant on a deck, etc.). We ended Sunny-Sunday-Funday with dinner at Pascal's house avec his lovely neighbor Marco. Mimi prepared harira, a traditional Moroccan soup that is filled with lentils, onions, saffron and various other spices. Typically, we purchase vegetables only to watch them rot in the fridge and occasionally comment on their slow demise, but in our efforts towards self-improvement, we tossed every last veggie in the fridge into a huge salad. Finally, Pascal prepared some sort of baked cheesy pasta dish that was pretty yummy.

Den, I'm not giving you all of these food details because it was some sort of culinary masterpiece to be replicated, rather to help us both understand what happened at the end of our meal. It was that post-feast moment of satisfied silence and digestion. I had just taken sip of wine, when from across the room came a distinct, not-to-be-messed with, burp. My eyes widened when I saw that the origin of the burp was none other then our beloved little Mimi. Yes, the delicate, lovely and always proper Mimi quite unintentionally let out a very gratified and guttural belcheroo. All guests were in a state of collective disbelief and Meggie herself looked rather baffled. Though, within just a few seconds, I was barreled over in hysterical laughter, attempting to keep the not yet swallowed wine in my mouth. Pascal then erupted into laughter and Marco soon joined in. After Mimi recovered from her initial shock at the most distinguished burp of '09, she, too, fell victim to an uncontrollable giggle fit.

I mean, people burp all of the time and it's no big woop, but ma belle soeur simply does not…If I only had a video of the whole fiasco to send around, many pants would be peed in...many, many pants.

Lots of love,
JAK

There are two types of people in the world

Dear Den,

Remember when we were living with my mama for a bit before our "unique" living situation in the attic of the mansion? Well, I know you will appreciate the new theme of things that Libs is saying because honestly, Den, Mother is still making the most silly comments. It delights me to no end.

Elizabeth: i don't think that my daughters are interested in communicating with their mother who carried them each around for nine months throwing up and losing her youthful and perfect body to bring them into this world. i guess i will have to adopt new daughters.

Libby, what are you talking about?!?

Saturday night and I ain't got nobody,
Megan

Denny,

In lieu of posting a blog entry today, I will redirect you, my faithful four blog readers, to an apt description of our year of spiritual discovery.

http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/2009/01/11/120-taking-a-year-off/

Perhaps someday though, I will tell you about my visit to the home of the former fashion editor at Italian Vogue to see her collection of vintage Italian designer clothing, Julia's sabotaging of Scizzle's facebook (he is now a fan of Beyonce, rose and karate), the mysterious "chocolate pudding" that we ate at a dinner party the other night that was certainly, we found out ex post facto, infused with a certain something that I will not disclose on our blog (Brokedown Palace? We always thought Claire Danes could play Julia in her biopic) but that makes me a bit anti-social and Julia a bit completely giggly goop (a word we just taught Pascal...), and the new game that the cleaning lady likes to play with me, where she hides my belongings all over the house and then pretends not to understand when I ask where they are. So for the moment I am off to find my running shoes, which could be under the kitchen sink, in the garage, or au salle de bains.

Love,
Kate Beckinsdale

Libby Andrus is so hot right now!

D-dawg,

My sweet, sweet mother is being so redunkulously funny lately. I don't know what to make of it! Until recently, some technological advances have been rather intimidating to Libs. Pour exemple, le cell phone. She TOTALLY freaks out every time her cell phone rings. A common scenario: we're driving in the car (when her reaction is most perilous for bystanders) and her celly rings... a look of panic/doom falls over her lovely face, she begins waving her hands violently, forgetting entirely that she is operating a moving vehicle, and screeches something like, "there is a RING, coming out of this BOX, what on earth do I do, Julia??" She's slightly more comfortable with computers then cell phones, and has become a fairly adept e-mailer. In the last week, though, her hipness and techiness have reached insane new levels. The following are direct quotes from e-mails she wrote us via "interweb" correspondence:

"You ask me if I know how to skype? I am the QUEEN of skype!"

"I am starting my own blog soon and your lives will never be the same."

"The Frey has a new album coming out. FYI."

"I saw your birthday pictures on flickr and you look slammin'"

Holy cow, Momma. Keep it up!!

Signing out,
Julia

Les enfants

Hey boy,

Alors, mon petit garcon. Mimi and I visited the orphanage yesterday where we will be working. There are about sixty five children living there, ranging in age from a week old to a few teenagers. Many of the children were abandoned by their parents in Marrakech and the surrounding villages. I have never actually been to an orphanage and was a little worried about how hard it would be to see these kids, but they all seemed surprisingly happy and were smiling and playing and having fun. The building is new and clean and they're even building a lovely little library. Tomorrow morning, Meggie and I report to the orphanage first thing in the AM to feed the babies. Eh, Deni, YES with bottles.

Love love,
Julia

PS
Not to make light of this subject, but have you seen the movie El Orfanato?? About the woman who returns to her childhood home and it is an orphanage for handicapped children and they come back from the dead and sing really creepy songs in the yard? Holy crapsville, I have never been so terrified by a movie in my life. IN MY LIFE.

Neutral Zone

Oh me oh my, Denny, Flickr has been updated. Photos from the fete, lots of pictures of Pascal, Julia and me (the gang, you know.. Jesus Christ), and all the pictures from Morocco August- December that were hiding on Julia's camera until now. So if you have an hour, or five, take a looksies and don't hesitate to comment on any pictures where we are looking skinny or tan.

Breakups = great for the waistline,
Megan Marion

L'anniversaire

Mon chere Den,

Well, the party was wildly successful. I shall recount the events of Saturday, January 31st as best I can. Zoubeeds, Megan and I went to Marjane (a gargantuan grocery store that makes Sam’s Club look like a corner drugstore) on Saturday morning. Zoubeda went a lil’ bananas with the shopping and bought half the store. We returned to Pascal’s and proceeded to chop, peal and clean for several hours. Much like preparing for a party under my father’s charge, Zoubeda ran an extremely tight ship. No breaks were allowed and we couldn’t eat lunch until most of the work was done. At one point, I tried to covertly paint my nails in the living room and was immediately busted. She shook her head at me in disapproval, brought in a bowl of potatoes and asked me to peal them mid-painting. Anyway, thank goodness for her work ethic as the place looked fabulous and we served at least ten lovely dishes (including mini burgers!!) to our guests.

Megs and I wore our best party dresses and of course had a pre-party pump ourselves up dance to the Macarena and YMCA (see above). We had about eight Americans and ten Frenchies over, and somewhat unfortunately, there was not much mixing between countries. The French were firmly planted in the living room and the Americans took over the hallway. Despite la separation, I think each group had fun. Pascal’s apartment was pretty much hot boxed with the amount of smoking. That was gross. Megan made a super awesome party mix. The notorious and enigmatic Leonard returned from his travels and he and Mimi engaged in their typical … banter, let’s call it. Zoubeed's future fiancé attended the party and though he only spoke Arabic, he actually mixed among everyone far better then the French or Americans did. He obvi gets most valuable player award. We had a delicious strawberry birthday cake and champagne. The night ended with Pascal and I singing Serge Gainsbourg’s “Bonnie and Clyde” as I danced atop a table. How very Paris Hilton of me.

Older and questionably wiser,
Julia