Yesterday as I was driving home this story popped in my head: my last semester of college my friend Jennifer and I were studying for our French final and we decided that we would only speak in French during our study session. We were doing pretty good — bad French is waaaay more fun than accurate, precise French — and then I remembered that my mother had made me some peanut butter fudge.
–Tu voudrait les bonbons? Uh, uh, le fudge? Le beurre something?
–Oui, oui! J’adore le fudge or whatever. Wait: is “beurre” beer?
–Non, c’est biere. Beurre is butter. Like le nut de pea beurre.
Then I opened the box of fudge, and it was full of ants, and we both started screaming and grabbing for our French dictionary, hoping to be the first to find the word. I think she won, because I can clearly recall her hollering LES FOURMIS OH MY GOD I MEAN MON DIEU LES FOURMIS.
Speaking of bad French, xyz and I used to instant message our way through our respective cubical jobs in our respective states, and we too adhered to the mostly French rule. Does it surprise you that the word “saucisson” was used liberally?
One more story about French, which also coincides with the state fair: my first boyfriend in 10th grade went to the Texas State Fair with me and my parents. While there, we were confronted by a man in a giant pickle costume giving away pickle pins and also a booth where an Asian man was selling little fuzzy chickens made of pom-poms and that had twisty wire legs. (They were four for a dollar, so we bought four [two brown, two yellow] and split them.) Two weeks later he gave me a note that had two appalling things in it: one, my name, MISSPELLED, and two, his declaration of love. Therefore, I broke up with him, and the next day, he waltzed into our French class wearing the following:
1. The outfit he wore on our first date.
2. The pickle pin.
3. BOTH THE BROWN AND YELLOW CHICKENS SOMEHOW TWISTED ON TO HIS COLLAR WITH THEIR LITTLE TWISTY WIRE CHICKEN LEGS.
I sometimes wish that I had already become the person I am now when I was 15, because today I would totally high-five him and make out with him immediately, while then I turned beet red and tried to will myself dead out of embarrassment. As if anyone in our class knew what those twisty chicken legs meant! Come on, Sally, loosen up and enjoy the hilarious and pathetic teenage gesture! I mean, it’s little twisty jambes du poulet. If that isn’t tres bon, I don’t know what is.