We always refused, since we live in an apartment and travel often on weekends and holidays.

And because, when I was a child myself, I had already had:
– a guinea pig (Apricot),
– a dog (Droopy),
– and a goldfish (RIRI, who accidentally died after being boiled alive — I will probably go to hell for this).

Tchoune never understood our refusal.

There was also a request of getting a rabbit or a guinea pig.

But in Switzerland, a law was recently passed requiring future rodent owners to buy two animals instead of one, so that they do not feel lonely.

So our refusal was now double.

Until one day, her best friend offered to give her two stick insects, since hers had just had babies.

For the record, a stick insect is an insect whose shape looks… exactly like a stick.

We innocently said yes.
Out of guilt.
And mostly because we thought this would be the easiest option.

The arguments were convincing:

A small, easy pet.
Motionless.
Silent.
Harmless.
And temporary, since a stick insect only lives about one year.

We would finally have peace regarding the dog, at least for a while.

And since they were apparently two females (how do you even determine the sex of a stick insect? Honestly no idea, and we didn’t try very hard), we naïvely assumed the whole thing would naturally end after a year.

What a terrible mistake.

We should have done our research on Google.

It turns out that stick insects are one of the only animals that reproduce through parthenogenesis, which means the females self-fertilize.
No males required.

And babies there were.
Many.
Often.

After two or three months, nothing could stop them.

They just kept laying eggs.

After Billie and Eilish (the original mothers), we raised Aquarelle, Gouache and Acrylic, then Ampoule, LED and Lampion.
And countless unnamed individuals between the named generations.

At that point, we had more insects than social relationships.

We gave babies to friends.
Then to friends of friends.
Then to neighbors.
Then to neighbors of neighbors.

Until nobody wanted to see us anymore, out of fear we might give them insects.

And one anonymous call to animal services even accused us of being exotic animal dealers.

I eventually started secretly freezing the babies that were born, despite our attempts at birth control.

Two clarifications, because I can hear you already:

When I say birth control: no, there is no contraceptive pill for stick insects. You just have to make sure to collect the eggs before they hatch.
Which is harder than it sounds, since a stick insect egg is extremely small and can easily be mistaken for… stick insect poop. Same color.

As for freezing the babies: no, I am not cruel. I am actually very empathetic. falling asleep from cold is a more dignified death than getting crushed under someone’s shoe.

Still, this led to some slightly uncomfortable situations.

Not to mention that every single insect counted by Tchoune, from birth to death, received a proper funeral in our houseplants, which now look like military cemeteries from World War II in Normandy.

Another complication we had no idea about: stick insects feed exclusively on mulberry leaves.

Which, in the middle of winter, are not exactly easy to find.

Technically, they can also eat rose leaves.

But beware: never give them leaves from a bouquet of flowers, because they are probably treated with insecticide, which means instant death.

(Maybe we should have tried it after all!)

So we ended up planting a mulberry tree on our balcony, just to keep a permanent food supply.

Let’s not forget the advantages of this pet.

– It doesn’t need to go outside. If it moves 5 millimeters in one day, you’re dealing with a marathon runner.
– It doesn’t love you (so no emotional dependency).

(The downside: it doesn’t love you.)

– It doesn’t destroy your sofa. But beware of your fine merino wool sweater: its tiny mandibles can catch on the fabric and pull threads.

This obviously only concerns Tchoune, because I would never let an insect crawl on me.
Especially not while wearing my merino wool sweater.

Moral of the story:

If an animal doesn’t move, doesn’t make noise, and doesn’t ask for anything…
be careful.

It’s probably a trap.

Conclusion:

Never accept a pet.

Except when the kids have left home.

Then get a huge dog to compensate for their absence.

Her oldest is 13.

Which means this poor soul has not spent a single day in over a decade without being responsible for the survival of another human being.

Can you imagine the emotional and physical exhaustion?

I have personally discovered a very effective remedy for mental overload, and I am kindly including the instructions for use below:

CHILD-FREE WEEKEND

INSTRUCTIONS FOR USE

Preventive medication for exhausted parents.

Definition

A child-free weekend consists of a temporary extraction of the parent from the family home.

Therapeutic purpose

To reduce chronic parental saturation by:

• temporarily suspending educational responsibility

• restoring silence

• reactivating higher cognitive functions

Indications

This medication is indicated for any adult presenting one or more of the following symptoms, and whose home has also been affected:

• Chronic fatigue despite 8 hours of (theoretical) sleep

• Inability to finish a sentence without interruption

• Inability to go to the bathroom alone

• Constant hyper-vigilance, even while lying down

• Progressive loss of patience

• Noise levels exceeding 120 decibels

• Inability to walk barefoot due to Lego-related injury risk

• Shared spaces invaded by objects designed for people under 12

• Meals cooked by the parent constantly criticized, rejected or ignored

• Abnormal accumulation of dirty laundry with suspicious recurring stains (marker, grass, chocolate)

Contra-indications

Total lack of childcare.

Dosage and administration

Recommended dose:
24 to 48 consecutive hours

Frequency:
1 to 2 times per year minimum
May be increased during periods of mental overload

Optimal administration:

• Alone, as a couple, or with another severely fatigued adult

• At a sufficient distance from home to prevent impulsive returns

• Five-star hotel with spa strongly recommended

• Environment low in child-related sound stimuli

Onset of action

Phase 1: silent disorientation (0–2 h)
Phase 2: progressive relaxation of the shoulders (2–6 h)
Phase 3: full thoughts return (≥ 12 h)
Phase 4: total relaxation (≥ 24 h)

Maximum effect reached within 48 hours.

Observed benefits

• Significant decrease in heart rate

• Return of uninterrupted logical thinking

• Feeling of lightness

• Marked increase in patience

• Higher tolerance for minor domestic chaos upon return

Possible side effects

• Scientifically unfounded guilt
  (usually disappears after receiving the first “Everything’s fine” message)

• High risk of dependency with an irresistible urge to repeat the treatment

• Mental comparisons with life “before”

Overdose

No cases documented to date.
However, prolonged exposure may cause:

• Difficulty reintegrating into daily family life

• Acute longing for silence

Effects on children

Available data shows:

• Rapid adaptation

• No lasting memory of the event

• 100% survival rate

Warning

This treatment does not constitute abandonment or lack of love.
It is a preventive mental-health measure allowing the parent to return calmer, more efficient, and more loving.

Conclusion

This extremely serious study conducted by a team of internationally recognized experts (Flosch, Flosch & Flosch) demonstrates that a weekend without kids is not a luxury, but a necessity for preventing parental burnout.

It should be mandatory, prescribed by general practitioners at regular intervals, and reimbursed by health insurance.

No scientific study has ever proven that a child was traumatized by a weekend without their parents.

However, parents who never go away without their children tend to show worrying symptoms that may lead to serious long-term side effects.

See for yourself.

P.S.: Stop reading and go plan your next child-free weekend! Tell me in the comments where you’re going so Baba and I can steal some ideas ;)

This semi-vegetative, semi-depressive state in which you wake up after the holiday euphoria, 5 kg heavier and feeling utterly dejected.

Obviously, the Northern Hemisphere is more prone to this phenomenon.

It begins like an Emile Zola novel.

You helplessly witness a major injustice: Christmas trees abandoned on the sidewalk. And what’s more, stripped of their twinkling lights.

The signal is given, the January depression can begin.

You, too, are no longer shining brightly.

You’ve put the glitter away (reluctantly).

You still find a few sequins under the sofa for weeks (a nostalgic reminder of a bygone era), along with a few stray, dry needles.

And you might be asking yourself the same question as me: who turned off the lights?

From maximum light consumption in December, with garlands and all the trimmings, we go to NOTHING.

You can barely see your numb fingers in the night after January 1st.

It’s as if the entire “city lighting” budget is spent in December, and then you just have to get out your headlamp.

Not to mention that it’s no better during the day since you’re under the stratus clouds 7 days a week.

(This headlamp isn’t so bad after all.)

You must be bribing the sun to deign to appear for 5 minutes every 10 days.

It’s like an influencer getting paid for a single post and not for an entire Instagram story.

Your New Year’s resolutions vanished on January 2nd.

That’s fine, you don’t have any this year anyway.

It saves you the guilt of not getting your money’s worth from your annual gym membership.

Anyway, it’s already ruined; for that, you would have had to start going on January 4th.

But tough luck, January 4th fell on a Sunday and the gym was closed.

Well, anyway, to be honest, you’re too tired to do any sports.

The holidays were exhausting…

Yeah, you had to make the most of the apartment rental in the mountains and the ski pass that cost you an arm and a leg.

You weren’t going to sleep in, were you?

Up at 7 a.m. every day (if it’s not you, it’s the kids dragging you out of bed anyway).

All this just to have picnics on the grass, since there’s never any snow at Christmas anyway.

And to soak up the sun, which will be your only source of vitamin D for the next three months.

(Apparently, the ski resorts have a marketing budget, since they can afford the services of the “sun” influencer.)

The Finns clearly don’t have the same budget.

In short, you come back exhausted and need a vacation, but you don’t have any money left to go away.

BUT you still have just enough for one fantastic activity: your weekly therapy session.

Because all is not lost, beware!

Therapists are swamped in January, and their annual revenue is generated between the 5th and 31st of that month.

Which will allow them to go somewhere sunny next Christmas.

Them.

(“I’m still reachable, don’t worry, except between 8 a.m. and 11 p.m. because of the time zone difference…”)

A few solutions, though.

Because you know me by now, despite my cynicism, I’m always looking for solutions!

Solution 1: Hibernation

Advantages: Time passing without you.

And the 5 kg gained at Christmas lost effortlessly.

Disadvantages: Renting a cave during the high season is very expensive, so roommates are mandatory. This can prove complicated.

Solution 2: Escape to warmer climates

Advantages: Vitamin D stores for the coming months.

Disadvantages: Budget for cosmetic surgery upon return.

Solution 3: Go to the mountains every weekend to be above the stratus clouds

Advantages: Become friends with the “sun” influencer

Disadvantages: All the benefits of the fresh mountain air are ruined by the Sunday night traffic jam.

Solution 4: Adopt an overly “kawaï” animal, like a puppy or a baby seal

Advantage: Someone gives you a warm welcome when you arrive from the freezing cold

Disadvantages: You’re the one who has to take the overly “kawaï” animal out into the polar cold. Nighttime

Solution 5: Save the weather forecast for hot countries on your iPhone

Advantage: It’s always sunny and hot in Zanzibar

Disadvantage: You’re not in Zanzibar

Ultimately, the best way to combat the January blues is to remember this is temporary.

There’s always light at the end of the tunnel. (Well, starting in March)

And provided you don’t go down the wrong tunnel.

We don’t always need to be high-achieving.

Or even motivated.

And we don’t have to put away the glitter either.

Personally, I’m all for wearing glitter year-round.

My January mantra: “February only has 28 days”.

That’s something, at least.

(And stay in bed during leap years)

PS: Hang in there, it’s still dark. But a little less than yesterday. Think of the Finns.

One of them was to stop aging.

Spoiler alert, it didn’t last long.

My birthday is tomorrow.

I did try denial...

Or a voodoo exorcism

But it was impossible.

Some signs are unmistakable.

Here’s a short, non-exhaustive list that will give you clues about your possible aging.

If at least 3 points apply to you, I’m sorry to break it to you, but you’re on the downward slope.

You know you’re getting old when:

1- Your children ask you if, when you were little, you saw life in black and white.

It reminds me of this drawing from my archive.

2-Instead of the exact number of candles for your age, your family or friends put a single number-shaped candle on your cake.

Officially, because “hahaha, it would take too long to light them all.”

Unofficially, because after smoking for 20 years, you no longer have the lung capacity to blow them all out at once.

(I quit smoking a while ago, rest assured.)

3- You receive useful gifts.

And even worse, you actually enjoy it.

That’s when you realize something has shifted.

Anecdotally, it even pleases the children you’ve refused to give a pet* to for years, so they compensate as best they can.

We named the robot Washing Polpette, by the way.

No, I’m not kidding.

Sad, I know.

(*except for stick insects, which will have their own post, I promise)

4- You need 72 hours to recover after a night out that ended at 11.15 PM.

No alcohol involved.

No dancing.

Just a chat with friends.

Sitting down.

You know you’re getting old when

5- You spend more time looking for your glasses than wearing them.

6- Young people offer you their seats on the bus and look at you kindly when you refuse.

A look that says, “She’s nice... for her age.”

They don’t say anything, but you…you know.

7- You buy overpriced face creams.

And the saleswoman manages to convince you in less than two minutes using terms like “firmness, radiance, cell regeneration.”

You agree without really understanding the role of Himalayan snail slime in all this, but you leave with a small bag full of promises and a lighter bank account.

8- You get scammed on the phone by a fake police officer who speaks to you in English while you’re in Switzerland, and to whom, after giving him all your bank details, you want to send flowers to thank him for his help in preventing fraud against the elderly.

You even give him your parents’ phone number because it’s important that they’re informed too.

9- Gmail asks you to change your password IMMEDIATELY because you’ve used the same password for the last 10 years on all your apps, and no, your birthdate isn’t a strong enough password.

Neither is Tchoune’s. Or Washing Polpette’s.

Besides, you should think about deleting the folder called “important passwords” from your computer. Siri keeps reminding you.

And finally,

you know you’re getting old when

10- you’re genuinely excited to try the new pear-cinnamon-hibiscus herbal tea.

The one you’ve been waiting for for months thanks to the teaser posted on Myspace—er, sorry, I meant Facebook.

(By the way, if you’re still on Facebook, you’ve already got one foot in the grave.)

Faced with all these undeniable signs, I obviously looked for solutions.

To begin with, I decided to count my age in dog years. In practical terms: a birthday every seven years.

Option number two: only celebrate odd-numbered birthdays. Even-numbered birthdays are, objectively, pointless, and I don’t like round numbers.

Another solution is to give the half-years when someone asks your age

(believe me, if people still ask you your age, it’s a pretty good sign because after 30 it’s considered rather rude).

Half-years make you feel younger.

Well, up to age 8, it’s actually the opposite.

I think these are quite interesting compromises.

But ultimately, the solution to slowing down aging might lie neither in creams nor in dubious calculations.

Perhaps the real solution is to keep laughing at yourself ?

All hope may not be lost.

My resolution to stop aging officially remains in effect, despite my body, which clearly hasn’t signed the same contract.

But at least I’ve found a really good herbal tea.

Here we go again for another year.

And its usual share of “New Year’s resolutions.”

I don’t know why we put ourselves through this every year since, generally, we know they’ll only last about two days.

Well, it all depends on where you set the bar, of course.

Which will seem high for some and practically nonexistent for others.

Here are my New Year’s resolutions for 2026.

I’m sharing them with you, but I’d love to hear yours in the comments!

1- Stop aging.

I admit, it’s not going to be easy. You might suggest I try methods like cosmetic surgery.

Or cryotherapy.

But actually, it’s not so much the physical aspect that bothers me, it’s the disconnect between my physical appearance and my mental state.

Even though I’m in my late forties, have two children, a first career and then a second, I still don’t feel like an adult!

Maybe we never really feel like adults?

Or is it just me? I’d love to hear your thoughts on this.

In any case, I’d love to stop time, and we could even imagine bonsai children, right? I’d keep them in pots in the living room.

Not very realistic, this first resolution for 2026, I grant you.

So let’s move on to the second one, which is more feasible.

2- Stop worrying about what others think of me.

Not easy for me.

I’m always in awe of people who couldn’t care less what others think of them.

I’m not talking about looks, though. I’ve always embraced my eccentricities in that area (my first career was in fashion, as I mentioned) and I’ve never had a problem with what people thought.

Like that time when, at 18, I dyed my hair Marlboro red (to match my pack of cigarettes) while my parents were abroad.

When they came back, my father sent me straight to the hairdresser to have it dyed a more conventional color.

My hair was a mess for a year, it cost me an arm and a leg, but I’d achieved my goal: annoying my parents and becoming the coolest girl in school in five seconds flat.

On the other hand, if people don’t like me, it throws me off. Not because I consider myself particularly likable, but because I don’t think I’m especially unpleasant.

And my self-confidence is rather limited.

I imagine that resonates with some of you.

3- Explaining the impact of AI around me to the point of being banned from all dinner parties.

I won’t lie to you, 2025 was a very difficult year for illustrators. The rise of AI is largely to blame, and many of my colleagues have also suffered.

Let’s be clear: when a company uses AI to generate an image—and I emphasize the word “generate,” not “create”—the AI ​​uses images scraped from the internet. It feeds on the work of others, whose revenue comes in part from copyright.

To simplify, when I create an illustration for professional use, my client “rents” this drawing for a specific use, duration, and territory. This is called a copyright assignment.

It’s the same principle for photography or music.

When you hear a song in an advertisement, the company pays the artist for the right to use that song in their ad.

In short, without going into too much detail, AI is a disaster for artists because when a company uses it to generate images it deprives not only a “real” person of work but also of remuneration linked to copyright.

I’m not saying that everything about AI is bad; some uses can certainly help optimize tasks, but generating images or music is something I veto.

When a company hires an illustrator, a photographer, or a writer, it’s not just hiring a visual technician or a specialist but a person with their own unique ideas, stemming from their life experiences, feelings, and personality. And in my opinion, that’s what will make an image, drawing, or commissioned text a unique work of art.

I sincerely believe that my added value as an artist is my humanity and my life experiences, imperfections and all.

As I mentioned in this newsletter, I want to share funny anecdotes with you, but also the reality of my profession—hence this little aside, so that the next time you’re at a dinner party (where I’m not invited!) and the topic of AI comes up, you can say: “I know this illustrator who was directly impacted by AI, etc...”

4- And finally, my last resolution, but certainly not the least:

To have no more resolutions.

Simply to follow my instincts, continue to work hard, believe in myself despite the challenges, nurture relationships with loved ones, and cultivate “the art of noticing”—I’ve practiced it for a long time.

It’s about marveling at the little “nothings” in everyday life. It sometimes annoys my children when, suddenly, even though we’re running late for school, I absolutely have to stop on the way to take a picture of a cloud, but I know deep down they appreciate it. In fact, they’re the ones now pointing out clouds or blades of grass to photograph.

I love to pause for a moment in this life that goes by so fast and take the time to look, not just see what surrounds us.

Perhaps that’s what it means not to grow old?

To never become jaded by the beauty that surrounds us, even in the smallest things.

I wish you a wonderful 2026. I hope you will give yourself the time to pause and reflect, and I especially thank you for giving me a little space to land in your inbox each week.

For now, let’s take off !

Happy New Year 2026!

Sincerely,

Your Flosch (&Fam of course)

No family drama? No settling of scores?

The Christmas tree didn’t go up in smoke?

I say this because all my childhood, I saw my father place a bucket of water not far from the tree “just in case.”

Indeed, in Switzerland, until not so long ago, we put real candles on the tree!

Not those little lights that start flickering when they’re faulty and cause epileptic seizures.

(Oh no, seriously? There are actually people who program a flickering function?!)

REAL candles, then.

I swear! Proof in pictures below, from the late 70s and early 80s.

When I lived in Paris (I’ve had several lives, this will certainly be the subject of a future post), the first time I celebrated Christmas at home, proud of my tree decorated with real candles (sent especially from Switzerland by my mother), nobody came to my Christmas dinner.

Instead, they sent the fire department…

Now it’s mission impossible to find candles for the tree.

Okay. You didn’t set the tree on fire. And no food poisoning from a bad oyster either?

That’s great, I’m delighted for you.

We had a great time too, thank you.

No arguments, no lousy gifts, no indigestion.

We even got some appreciation from the children for the Christmas presents.

They didn’t give Santa Claus any credit.

Well, the kids stopped believing in Santa a while ago, actually…

Anyway, I find all this very suspicious, not a single hitch.

Were we spared so that fate could strike us before the end of the year with a nasty bout of gastroenteritis?!

Oh dear, you might say, this pessimism is unbearable!

I didn’t come here for that.

Well, yes, I would reply!

It’s much funnier when everything goes wrong, isn’t it?

Who hasn’t laughed at the guy who slips on the banana peel?

If he sees it and avoids it at the last moment, there’s no more action.

A slight transgression, but speaking of bananas, do you remember the one by the artist Maurizio Cattelan that was taped to the wall and bought for several million dollars by a collector to be eaten afterward?

It really made me laugh.

Hence my comment. We laugh at falls, mishaps, other people’s misfortunes, the unexpected, never at happiness or success!

So I was hoping for a little drama during the holidays to fuel this newsletter.

Nothing.

I had a magnificent Christmas dinner on the 24th, followed by a magnificent Christmas lunch on the 25th, followed by a magnificent Christmas afternoon tea on the same day.

And I don’t even have a hangover…

Because I don’t drink alcohol, well, not anymore. (Yes, yes, don’t worry, it will surely be the subject of a post one day.)

What do you expect me to write under these circumstances?

I was hoping for a little empathy from my family to create an inspiring action that I could use in my newsletter.

But no. Everyone was nice. The presents were great. The children behaved well. They even called a truce on their arguments for two days.

They didn’t set fire to the Christmas tree. (Besides, it’s more complicated with LEDs).

Yes, okay, they just tried to poison Santa and his reindeer, but that doesn’t count since they didn’t come anyway, one still being on strike and the other stuck on a drifting piece of ice floe or on a beach (if you missed the previous episode, it’s over here!).

Depressing.

Well, to give you at least one somewhat interesting piece of information, our Christmas tree this year was pretty lame.

Since we were spending our holidays in the Swiss Alps (a bit of a cliché, I know, but don’t get carried away!)

Actually, the Swiss Alps looked like this these past few days

but I digress (as usual): so we were spending our holidays in the mountains, but since we were coming back down to Geneva to spend Christmas with our respective families, we couldn’t be bothered to decorate a real tree up there.

So we just stole two fir branches from outside a supermarket. Yes, yes, I did say stole. Well, not exactly, we borrowed them from a pile of trash left over from a Christmas tree cutting.

Flosch&Fam are rummaging through the bins for their Christmas tree, now that’s news, isn’t it?!

We only had strange Christmas ornaments available this year; all the so-called “classic” ones were inaccessible in the cellar.

So here’s our decor this year.

Not so bad after all, right?

Now, regarding any potential disasters that might spice up my newsletter (speaking of spice, it reminds me that last year at Christmas we were in India. I have to tell you about it in a post sometime; it was quite epic, but I digress again—it’s a habit of mine…),

the year isn’t over yet, so there’s still potential to set the cabin on fire. Oh no, darn it. We only have LEDs.

But who knows, we might slip on a banana peel!

See you next year!

Join the Fam !

There. I’ve said it.

The bull is let loose in the china shop.

Okay, obviously it’s nice to get together with family, yes, of course.

BUT.

I’d like to set the record straight: you have to be absolutely crazy to enjoy Christmas !

Let’s recap:

The concept first. A quick reminder: we celebrate the birth of a child through immaculate conception.

At this point, we’ve already lost the teenagers, and probably quite a few children too (thank you internet).

So, the birth of a child that, let’s face it, half of humanity couldn’t care less about.

And the other half disagrees on his role in History and ends up fighting over.

A holiday for which millions of Christmas trees are sacrificed.

Why Christmas trees in the first place? Generally, in French, when we say “ça sent le sapin” (literally, it smells like a fir tree), it’s not a good sign, I remind you. It refers to the wood used to make coffins! The English equivalent would be “He has one foot in the grave.”

So we cut down lots of trees but we cry about deforestation in the Amazon. And since that depresses us, we compensate by eating kilos of Nutella. (yes, the same one for which entire forests are cut down to produce palm oil)

I’m taking this opportunity for a little product placement (unpaid!) I highly recommend this ultra-delicious, palm oil-free alternative!

Anyway…

And the gifts: shall we talk about the gifts?!

The lack of ideas, renewed every year… The shops that put out Christmas decorations as early as October as a constant reminder that “no, you still haven’t found a gift for Aunt Bertha.” Then, when you’ve finally found Aunt Bertha’s gift and, after countless comparisons, you’ve ordered it online to save 2% on the final price... THEN the Postal service finishes you off.

(Perhaps karma for not buying from the little shop on the corner?)

So, the postal service informs you AFTER you’ve placed your order that you should expect significant delivery delays.

Indeed, it’s not like we could have predicted that Christmas would fall at the end of December this year...

Or that the postal service can consider hiring more staff during this busy period to handle the unusual influx of parcels.

No, if you haven’t ordered your gifts by mid-September, too bad….

It’s your fault, don’t push it.

But it’s not a big deal, you might say ! Christmas and its magic are for children ! To make their mischievous little eyes sparkle and savor their excitement.

Since the decorations have been on the store shelves.

That is, since the beginning of October.

Until about 30 minutes after opening the presents.

After that, they’re already trading them for Pokemon cards on Discord and making their lists for next year.

But the worst part of all this is having to keep quiet about where the presents came from!

(No, no, it wasn’t Mum & Dad who worked 150 extra hours at night and on weekends to get you the latest Nintendo console.)

It’s all thanks to Santa Claus.

That famous overweight bearded guy who, by the way, sends generations of traumatized children to therapy…

Image proof below.

Parents are working themselves to the bone, and on top of that, Santa Claus gets all the credit!

Anyway, he can’t come help; he’s stuck on a piece of ice floe drifting off the North Pole because of global warming.

(This Santa Claus in the tropics is a bit suspicious, I am telling you...)

Or maybe he is stuck because of a reindeer strike. Or maybe the elves are protesting their working conditions.

Or worse: Santa Claus is lying to us!

In fact, he’s relaxing on a beach, cultivating his patriarchal image while sipping cocktails surrounded by nymphets at his beck and call.

“Sorry, I can’t, I have a silk painting workshop in an hour.”

All that stress just to end up rushing to exchange presents on December 26th.

Because yes, let’s be honest, presents are sometimes a bit rubbish

So, in addition to having to go exchange them in the middle of a crowd , we go huffing and puffing like crazy because, yes, besides being stressful, on Christmas Day we spent hours sitting at the table stuffing ourselves with foie gras and gained 5 kg in two days.

We end the year fat, broke, and depressed.

Ahhh, the magic of Christmas!

Joking aside, what did you get me for Christmas ?!

Come on. No hard feelings!

And...

Especially for Baba.

Who sometimes takes it quite far.

Like for that party whose theme was Marie Antoinette at Versailles.

He dressed up as a lobster.

What’s the connection, you ask?…

Well, that year Jeff Koons was exhibiting at Versailles.

You had to have the reference…

Well, at the same time, he comes from a family where his parents dressed him up as a cigarette when he was 9.

Not sure that would fly today.

So dressing up is serious business.

Sometimes it works well.

And other times, not so much.

This also allows me to introduce today’s topic: a deeply rooted tradition in Geneva that takes place every year in mid-December : The Escalade Festival.

It commemorates Geneva’s victory against an attack from neighboring Savoy on the night of December 12-13, 1602.

The city repelled the invaders and has celebrated this event every year since.

Children dress up for the weekend.

And the highlight of these two days of celebration is the parade that takes place on Sunday evening in the Old Town, where participants are dressed in period costumes (and not disguised, say the purists, including my husband), as in 1602.

Baba, Tchoune, and Zebule proudly participate; here’s what they look like that day:

Meanwhile, I watch the parade, taking photos while freezing cold.

It’s a truly magical moment that I highly recommend you experience if you’re in Geneva during this time.

Tradition also dictates that on this day, a chocolate pot is smashed while shouting, “And thus may the enemies of the republic perish!”

This is in memory of “Mère Royaume”, a lady who, to aid her compatriots, is said to have thrown a cast-iron pot containing vegetable soup onto the heads of attackers.

And you, what is your most memorable costume?

Tell me in the comments, I might draw the most original ones ;)

It deserves a brief official introduction of the main characters of Flosch&Fam:

To help you get to know the characters, here are a few details:

Flosch is me! Flosch is a contraction of Flo(rence) and Sch(legel).

Fam stands for Family.

I’m a freelance illustrator based in Geneva, Switzerland.

In a previous life, I was a fashion designer in Paris.

That might be the subject of a post of its own, as there’s so much to say about it, so many anecdotes. If you’re thinking about the stereotypes surrounding people in the fashion industry, you’re still far from the truth. Have you seen the movie “The Devil Wears Prada”? Well, the fashion world is like that, but 100 times worse.

But I digress.

So, I’m an illustrator, but with two very distinct illustration styles.

My “serious” style, as I call it (if you’re interested, you can take a look here: www.florenceschlegel.com).

And my Flosch style.

Flosch&Fam is my third baby (I’ll introduce the other two later), my space to unwind, my journal of funny anecdotes.

I started drawing anecdotes about my family in 2019. (You can look at the archives here.) Since my main medium is drawing, it seemed natural to immortalize these funny little moments this way rather than writing them down.

However, in this newsletter, I’d also like to share a little more than just pretty , finished drawings with you. I’d also like to show you some behind-the-scenes glimpses. Tell you about my work. Talk about my inspiration (other than that related to family). Showing you my discoveries.

Always with humor. (At least I’ll try.)

You can expect one newsletter every one to two weeks, so don’t worry, I won’t bombard you with emails.

If you’re looking for a lighthearted and fun break in your daily life, you’ve come to the right place.

We’ll also discuss serious topics, of course, but always with a touch of humor and irony, because we all need it right now, don’t we?

But let’s get back to the matter at hand, or rather, to introducing the other family members.

Baba is my husband. A truly extraordinary man (obviously, since I married him). There’s a lot to say about him, but he probably won’t appreciate me going into detail, so I’ll leave a touch of mystery surrounding him. You’ll discover the rest little by little in my drawings.

Now for the children:

Tchoune

(Pronounce Tsch-oon) 13 years old, a great animal defender.

Raised generations of stick insects as pets (Yes, those insects that look like pieces of wood and reproduce by parthenogenesis: meaning the females self-fertilize! No need for males! The future of humanity?! Sorry, I’m getting off-topic again; that will be the subject of a separate post. Or maybe not).

Tchoune is also a defender of the planet, outraged by injustice, with a heart of gold but often too lazy to set the table or take out the trash. Reads about two books a week. (We had to get her a Kindle for traveling because otherwise, when we fly, we pay for 20kg of excess baggage). Very loyal in friendship, hates the slightest criticism, always wants to have the last word. Headphones permanently glued to her ears. In short, a typical teenager.

Zebule

Doesn’t like animals (except for his sheep toy named Loulou), and couldn’t care less about the planet. He starts asking in June when it’s going to snow. Every day. Until December. He thinks of nothing but skiing. He practically sleeps with his new pair of skis when he gets them.

Also obsessed with cycling from the end of April (he has to face the facts: skiing is on hold, he has to redirect his obsession to something else), he knows the performance, height, and weight of every cyclist in the Tour de France.

In short, as you’ve probably guessed, Zebule is quite the athlete. He gives “chick” kisses and “gli-gli mouchettes” (a very difficult translation, but basically it involves tickling someone’s face with your eyelashes: see diagram below).

He likes having his hair “(r)uffled” and a bone “read” to him.

(That is, having the name of every bone in the human body described to him ; needless to say, I’m not the one doing that, otherwise I would have gone to medical school.)

Here are the main characters and some of their defining characteristics. Others will appear in future posts. Some may remind you of people you know. Any resemblance to real people may not be entirely coincidental.

The Flosch&Fam is always happy to welcome new members.

Because yes, Flosch & Fam is also you!

Don’t hesitate to share your own anecdotes with me; I always love hearing them, and who knows, they might even turn into a little comic strip! (In that case, I’ll cite the source of inspiration with your permission )

Welcome to the family!