JEANNE: He was hot. I mean, the chocolate bars and everything.
ELISABETH: Chocolate bars?
JEANNE: You know, he had beautiful abs.
ELISABETH: Oh, right. We call that a six pack.
JEANNE: Huh, you name the abs after beer?
ELISABETH: YOU NAME THEM AFTER CHOCOLATE!
Something that happens almost nightly here in the shoe box that I call home is that Jeanne arrives at my door on her way home from work, and if there's anything new on the weblog, she comes in to read it by my side.
Her new thing is to ask me if I am being “ironic” when she doesn’t understand something I’ve written. This started when she learned the word from this post, the post where I said she was completely lacking in irony. (It's one of my favorite things about her, and in that way, really not a "lack" at all.) While reading my most recent entry last night, Jeanne noticed that I called an acquaintance, the girlfriend of Alex, “nice” and questioned it, asking me if I was being ironic. "Of course not," I said. But Jeanne pressed on, "Tu as dit qu’elle est gentille, mais pourquoi? Ca fait rien de dire ca."
She's right. Using the word "nice" adds about as much to the story as Brad Pitt’s naked ass in the film Troy, but it somehow makes me feel better about throwing real people’s names around on the internet, (some that are merely acquaintances), if I can say "the very nice XX” or "the very pretty XX.” I explained to Jeanne my reasoning, but she only said, “Je n’aime pas ce genre de choses” with a lordly certainty that shows me she would be an AWESOME editor in chief of lacoquette.blogs.com. Should I ever be beaten publicly for wearing my gym clothes on the street or poisoned by my downstairs neighbor for all those times I dropped the remote control on the floor, I hereby appoint Jeanne as my Number Two.
Jeanne will also question words that are not in her vocabulary as she reads my entries, and in that way, La Coquette has been very good for her English. Last night, she was reading commentary on the latest post and asked me “Ca veut dire quoi ‘unhip’”? I explained, saying it meant pas branché, and she tossed her hair off her shoulder with a cry of ecstasy and in her best french imitation of a Valley Girl said “I am sooooo heep.”
You know how in the Father of the Bride remake, Steve Martin’s character just gets more and more exasperated at things he has no control over, and then when he finally snaps, it is because they don’t sell the correct number of pre-bagged hot dog buns at the grocery store? (Dogs are sold in packages of eight, while buns in packages of twelve. You are forced to buy four extra buns. He curses the evil, Trumpian hot dog magnates.)
I’m just going to go out on a limb here and guess that George Banks is snapping at more than superfluous buns. I do the same thing, and Jeanne is always there to talk me down, no matter how inane the object of my crankiness. And also, for everything work related which cannot be talked of in this venue, she’s been there. (Which, hooo sister! There has been no short supply of hot dog debacles when it comes to the fashion-y types, if you know what I'm sayin.)
I love Jeanne for a million reasons, but my very favorite thing about her? She is the most lacking in irony, refreshingly straightforward person you will ever meet. I love how when I read a fashion magazine with her, she oh la la’s at EVERY SINGLE PRICE POINT as if it’s the first time she ever saw anything so unfairly priced and can you believe their nerve at even asking such a price? I love how, every time I go into her apartment, she is working on a kitten or sailboat puzzle. How can you not love the person who possesses this level of patience? Happy 26th birthday to my best friend in Paris, Jeanne.
I pull my This Fish Needs a Bicycle t-shirt out of the Fed-Ex box, squealing like a sorority girl on Bid Day. The squeal, well, girlish excitement in general, eet eez so American, non?
I'll be the first to plead guilty. In junior high school, it seemed every other sentence out of my mouth was, “I’m so excited.”
I'm so excited to get my license.
I'm so excited to see the fireworks.
I'm just. so. excited for the new Boyz II Men album. Oh. my. god.
A vacuous phrase, but I was lost without it. During one summer vacation in France, I finally asked my Dad what the French equivalent would be. He shrugged and said, “They don’t get excited.” How true.
I pull on the t-shirt.
Jeanne: C’est qui "Zeez Feesh," alors?
Coquette: She has a weblog!
Jeanne: Mmmm. exhaling cigarette Et la bicyclette, machin, c’est quoi ça?
Coquette: Her tagline? It’s her way of saying relationships with men make life. Entertaining.
Jeanne: shrugging Oui, bien sur.
"They don't get excited."
I pull up Fish’s weblog for Jeanne. Surprisingly, she gets excited.
Jeanne: Elle habite à Manhattan? Clapping. Génial--ça fait trop Cahree Bradshaw!
Coquette: Yes, cousin of mine, I’m sure Heather gets Sex and the City comparisons all the time, but you know, it’s just. Not really about the sex, okay? Or the men for that matter.
This week, for example, she has this line--she compares her mother to a Carol King album. It is so. Perfect. It keeps coming back to me, tu sais?
I turn to face Jeanne. Well, what do you think?
Jeanne: What do I sink? I sink she eez anozzer good writer who make you soooo jalouse.
Coquette: What?! I meant about the t-shirt!
Jeanne: Yes, yes, eets very nice. Engrossed in reading Heather's blog. Juste une petite question--c’est quoi un "sex swing"?
Coquette: Aucune idée. Try googling it? snickers
**************
Heather, you promised the t-shirts would be hellawickedcool. And they are, oh yes. I might even go so far as to say supermegagenialcool.
P.S. Should you and your porn hair (ow OW!) ever want to come to Paris, we have some mighty fine men. I mean bikes. Just saying.
We finally decide on Le Mouffetard, liking the looks of the cracked banquets.
Menus snapped down. The waiter is efficacité personified. From central casting. "Are we ready to order now?"
I hold my breath. I know what Jeanne's going to do. She's going to When Harry Met Sally him.
"And the chocolate, it isn’t powder?"
"No, mademoiselle."
"And the whipped cream, that’s not from a can?"
"Of course not."
His lips are pursed tightly now.
Jeanne looks up from the menu. Squinting half her face, as she does. "You do make it with real milk?"
The waiter’s chin is tucked in so far. Pumpkin head on shoulders. He sucks in air. "Evidemment. You’re in a brasserie, mademoiselle."
Satisfied, she decides she will, indeed, take the hot chocolate.
I request a café crème.
He’s walking away. Under his breath, "You want real milk with that?"
Jeanne digs in her handbag for a lighter, then looks up. I'm grinning.
"What?"
Two nights ago, I arrived at the grocery store just as the merchant pulled down the accordion-iron gate. “Desolé,” he said, pointing to his watch. I planned to go back last night, but things--important things, things involving mixed beverages--came up.
Which left me opening my refrigerator this morning to find nothing more suitable than beets and some fiercely ripe goat cheese staring back, neither of which seemed an appropriate complement for café au lait. In desperate moments like these, I cross the hall in my slippers to retrieve some toast and confiture from Jeanne’s refrigerator, all the while whispering prayers of gratitude for my apartment’s “other wing,” as Jason recently dubbed it.
Of course, it’s Jeanne's freezer that is by far the more interesting half of her frigo. It's composed almost exclusively of plastic butter containers--dozens of them. Their contents are labeled in red sharpie, and the words scrawled on the plastic are equally direct--porc chataignes, poisson riz, blanquette, or sauce champignons.
A simple exterior belies the home-cooked heaven inside--they are the vestiges of my aunt's phenomenal meals.
After a visit home, the last thing Jeanne will do before getting into her tiny Peugeot and careening through the countryside to the train station--(I’m telling you, my knuckles are white after every ride, even with France’s new speeding laws)--is to stock a small cooler with these leftovers.
I have been known to reap the benefits of my tata Marie-Line’s butter containers from time to time.
My aunt and uncle, Roger and Marie-Line, operate a dairy farm in a tiny village outside of Le Mans. When I say tiny, I mean less than 100 people, tiny. My father was born on this farm. So was my grandmother. (Talk about attachment to la terre, my family's got it. Big time). Every weekend that my cousin doesn't go home, she heats one of her mother's dishes. I know that it means a hell of a lot more to her than just convenience.
For me, even though my aunt’s cooking is certainly not my mother’s, and the farm is certainly not my home, the existence of both makes this experience abroad somehow less rocky. I am living 5,000 miles away from my friends and immediate family, but at the same time, an hour's TGV-ride from the place where my father spent his boyhood. The farm is my beacon.
I'll probably visit my aunt and uncle next month. Until then, there is the stock of home cooking in the freezer next door. Although obviously not useful for breakfast emergencies.
Last night, Jeanne and I watched the film Flashdance on television. Even after living in France for a year, I still write off watching television as “productive” and “vocabulary-building.” I have not yet called it “working,” but I can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed my mind.
The only problem with learning French from Flashdance is, do you know how much of this film is action montages set to music? I’ve done some rough calculations, and after stringing all of the dialogue bits together, you’re left with approximately 8 minutes and 20 seconds of film.
In one of the 20-second dialogue chunks, Jennifer Beals and her boyfriend/boss are on a date at a fancy restaurant and boyfriend/boss's ex-wife comes over. (You know the part I mean--just after Beals runs her tongue all over the lobster and sticks her foot in his crotch?) The ex-wife, clearly threatened by this lobster-licking stripper that is dating her former husband says, “I imagine he took you to so and so on the first date.”
And Jennifer Beals, whose character we’ve come to learn is no milquetoast--have you seen her with a blowtorch?--replies, “Et c’est moi qui l’ai violé.” (And I’m the one who jumped him).
This is where I looked at Jeanne and said “violet”? Because it sounded to me like the word for purple and WHAT THE HELL KIND OF SENSE DOES THAT MAKE?
And Jeanne said “Eeets, umm, to rape?” (This is the literal translation of violé).
Seeing my nod of comprehension and feeling proud, Jeanne nestled back into her cushion and said “Sank you Neervanah.”
Referring, in case you haven’t guessed, to this Nirvana song.
Just now, Jeanne and I were watching the game show Questions Pour Un Champion, and I kept having to remind her that it was past Madame L’s bedtime, which does NOT mix well with shouting along at game shows. We were particularly worked up on account of tonight being the one time a year this program invites students from the Grandes Ecoles to compete, (like the Ivy Leagues in America), and HEY, HOT GEEKS!
After my eleventh time of "Shhh"ing Jeanne, I heard the announcer ask, “What is the contraction of two English words whose meaning is journal intime...” and before any of the contestants could hit their buzzers, I raised both arms in the air and shouted “WEBLOG!” loud enough that I’m sure it shook every wall in my 16th century apartment building. And then I looked at Jeanne and covered my mouth and whispered, “Weblog! I finally got one right!”
I didn’t expect to care about turkey. Last year I didn’t care. But last year, I was just visiting France on Thanksgiving...sleeping on a mattress on Jeanne’s floor. It was pre-The Big Move. It was my apartment-scoping/can-I-really-do-this visit. I was so stoked to just be IN FRANCE, and with no visible signs that Thanksgiving was even going on without me, I got through the day fine.
But now, I’ve officially lived here a year, and I haven’t seen Late Night With Conan O’Brian, or driven a car, or eaten Veggie Booty in EIGHT WHOLE MONTHS, and I found myself suddenly caring about turkey.
I would have loved to have cooked Thanksgiving dinner for my French friends, but whatever I could have procured with a hot plate and a convection oven seemed more depressing than doing nothing.
And none of this mattered anyway because Thanksgiving Day happened to fall on Le Jour des Catherinettes--an old French tradition for girls who are 25 and, GASP!, still single. As we all know, any excuse to drink in costume is all right by me, so since the day I learned about Catherinettes, I had promised my cousin Jeanne if she was single on November 25, 2004, I’d be the girl organizing the party and making the hat.
Continue reading "A Very Special Thanksgiving Story, or Vive La Sainte Catherine" »
In a special segment we’re starting called “Ask My French Cousin Jeanne,” Jeanne shares her thoughts on some of the hottest new programs in France this fall. (Editor would also like to note no apologies to Jonathan Safran Foer.)
For commencement, it is pleasurable to be here. Well, let me be jumping in now. We just obtained two emissions that are seeming supercool:
One of them chronicles some very alluring, but very not satiated youths. It is called The C.O. or The O.C. or something like this. (What is it with the Americans and word abridgment? Coquette says “keep it on the DL” so recurringly, I am beginning to clutch the meaning, but MIA, AWOL, AOL, CIA, O.J....I am never keeping it aligned)
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