Ready, Aim.....C'est La Vie

Over the holidays I managed to buy a year-long calendar. A calendar with vintage p0rn in it.

Pipe down, pipe down. I was as shocked as you are but let me explain why I purchased said material at my local family-friendly literary establishment (Hint: rhymes with Yarns and Mobile).

Purchased in front of my four kids.

To hang on my apartment wall.

To make my kitchen classy.

Let me back up a bit...I seem to forget that by the end of December, all the calendars for the next year are gone. I don't understand this phenomena but it's the truth. To find something other than Enemies of Pokemon or the Senators of the Month calendar you've got to get on the ball around Halloween. This year I remembered. This year I planned. This year I was thankful not to look at Sen. John Kerry for an entire month.

In my excitement of fall, between lobotomizing pumpkins, organizing hayrides, and making pumpkin-pie shaped doorstops, I snagged a decent calendar.

However, despite proper planning I managed to miss a crucial picture in my new French wine label calendar. Wine label art is innocuous enough adorning the family kitchen in elegance and refinement. Vintage labels would give the kitchen more character. That, coupled with my fondness of most anything French, or liberality of booze for that matter, made my selection even easier.

I had the foresight to hang the calendar behind my 2009 pick...something classy like, You and Your Tupperware. December rounded it's last week and I eagerly rushed to display my treasure. I felt all kinds of cultured...artful...sophistication. Aren't these lovely?





The French are known to be far less inhibited (stuffy?) than us Western folk. French women know how to dress impeccably and keep svelte figures. The French drink lots of wine. They love openly. They know their art. They sit languorously relaxed in their quaint bistros being served fresh baked bread and little demitasse cups of espresso. They know their culinary delights. And I still don't know how they manage to down all that cheese without epic colonic developments.

However, after gingerly and reverently opening the month of January, I encountered a rather WTF moment. That's What The French, if you wondered. The pièce de résistance: Madame January in all her GrapeB00bie-Grope-Flowery-Squirty glory. Yes, you are seeing what you think you are seeing.


No matter what country you live in art is art and subject to the beholder. I get that. However, January's art completely baffles me. I'm not skilled in the production of champagne but I somehow doubt that this is how champagne is actually made. In fact, I'll go so far as to declare that it's fairly odd to squeeze champagne out your grape b00bs directly into a champagne bottle.

Frenchie has me wondering then, does it take years to learn how to properly....um, express champagne? I would gather that the Morlant champagne people must offer some kind of training course for this: Grape Squeezing 101. Grope To Express. You'll Shoot Your Eye Out Workshop? The class would have a gender requirement but who says a man couldn't have grape champagne "extra quality" squirtage, too? I have two boys and I've cleaned enough bathroom floors to know that aim for the male gender is a common issue. Either way, I'd bet my grape-less chest that registration would be reminiscent of High School Home Ec. There's that straight guy or two braving estrogen and domesticity to hang out with a classroom of chicks. Chicks expressing themselves.

Yeah, like these dudes are stupid.

Au contraire, mon chou.

As for technique, I would assume one would warm up for proper extrication. Bottle placement would also be important as distance from expressor to bottle would undoubtedly dictate a lesser amount of bubbly. And naturally, this comes to my mind while jotting down January's appointments and birthdays.

The worst part about my faux pas is where instead of thinking the label horribly creepy, I immediately wanted to know where she learned how to aim so well. I so went there. Aren't you wondering how Frenchie is hitting the bulls eye opening like a pro dart player? That takes some mad skills. I could have used some of that mojo back when I was breastfeeding.

~Bee is glad it's now February.