You have to kiss a few frogs....

I can't believe I am living in Paris. It was barely 6am when we landed this morning, and even though it was pitch dark the city was already alive. It was infectious as I sat in the cab, watching the lights, feeling the energy, and holding the hand of my new husband.

Matt did not just fall into my lap. As my gals can tell you, I did my fair share of dating the duds, and kissing the frogs. Although there were those times that I thought Mr. Right was simply not out there, and I was going to be the real-life Brigid Jones (minus Colin Firth) those failed relationships simply led me to one that is fail-proof. As Matt and I settled into our hotel room this morning, each secretly hoping to have enough shelf space so as to meticulously arrange and store our belongings, I smiled inside, knowing that in many ways it was an analogy for our life in Paris; making the best of what we have, sharing with one another, and delighting in whatever comes our way (yes, organizing does that for me).

That being said, and with the sentiment set aside (Devon, stop reading), I am elated that I have found my prince charming, and am done kissing frogs, because I may now be the catalyst for their extinction. This evening, after a stroll through our new neighborhood, we stopped in a quaint little bistro for what we hoped would be an authentic French meal. We were not let down. In addition to the most chewy, fresh baguette, I had warm goat cheese crostinis with rosemary on a bed of greens. That may have seemed sufficient (especially if you could see me sitting here inhaling the Haribo that we secured at the Franpix this evening), but that was just not going to do if I were to now be "French." The kind waiter arrived and placed the aromatic, dark stew in front of me. To the unknowing eye, it appeared as if it were in the same family as Manhattan clam chowder. Exit clam, insert frog. The entire body of the frog was served within the sauce, save the head. Luckily for the frog, he was not alone in his misery, as I believe there were between 7-10 little fellows, about to be eaten by the pseudo-French madame hovering over them. As I plucked the meat from the first little thigh, I was expecting to gag, and perhaps make my first scene in my new home town. To my utter shock, the tender meat slid right down, soon to be followed by many more bites.

Although I felt as if I walked down the rue today with an American flag plastered on my forehead, I believe my transition from Mrs. Benz to Madame Benz has begun. Sorry, Kermit.