My Many French Faux Pas

I thought I would take this opportunity to memorialize what a dumb ass I sound like in french. I sit here typing this from my bedroom while the cleaning lady and host mother speak rapid french. She just asked if the french dog was finished barking - funny story about that dog, he's deaf - the vacuum was started and then a french baby began to cry. I'm also rather certain she screamed, "are you done vomiting!?" See the chaos I put up with? Things are bound to get lost in translation and I inevitably look like an American fuck.

1. This instance is not so bad, but my Mom and Dad visited me here, bless them, and my host mom gave my vaginal birth mother a nice book of the region. A couple days after my parents had left, my host mom asked if my real mom had looked at the book. Now, mind you, I had no idea if my mother had looked at the book, but I went ahead and said that she had thoroughly enjoyed the book. While she sat on top of the plane..

2. My horrific mistake of telling a six year old that my favorite animal was a baby seal. Now, the word for seal in french is phoque, aka, FUCK in english. I have this little blond six-year old looking up at me saying FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, ton animal préféré est un bébé fuck. I wanted to to pull a Russel Edgington again and shoot the phoque up into the sky.

Image Source..and my brilliant text addition

3. For about two months now, I have been saying "salut" every time I walk in the door. It's friendly and informal enough for family so I'm not saying, good day to you ma'am every time I come home from school. Apparently my American accent bastardizes the shit out of that little word "salut" and makes it sound something like sah-low (phonetically). In french, however, sal-oh, which is actually the word "salop" means something very different than "hey." Let's just say I've been calling my wonderful 70 year-old host mother who takes care of me, cooks for me and loves me a man slut since I got here. Oh, let's not forget that I've been calling the six year-old a man slut, too.

4. I had known that a friend of my host mom's and said friend's husband were no longer together. I assumed divorce, naturally. Aparrently my American ears didn't catch the whole story.. while at dinner one night, we are talking about this friend and her life and how her story is depressing as fuck and whatnot. So, I venture into being sympathetic and trying to generate some conversation.

"Well, do they still speak?" I ask innocently. My host mother looks at me with quizzical eyes and draws back like I've just attempted to stab her with a fork. Feeling awkward and feeling the need to fill the silence, I continue and try again. "Do they still speak? Even after divorce people can have friendly relationships." I let it hang, I feel supremely awkward.

"Do they still speak?" she asked.

"Yes, yes!" I say, excited that she finally understood my question.

"Well, he's dead," she says.

"Ah." I grab my water as quickly as I can and take a drink to excuse me from having to say anything more.


4. Body language in its purest form. The toilet is right next to my host-mother's bedroom, where she slumbers and snores like an asthmatic bear. You all know how we feel about using public bathrooms, friends' bathrooms, etc. here at Quimsical Audecdotes, and if you don't, you can find out here, hizzere or maybe even hurr. Trust me, they're all worth a read. So, I'm naturally apprehensive about using the toilet to hershey squirt next to her bedroom and I can tell by the outrageous size of my stomach that I am about as full of gas as this hiphopanonymous:

 

Nonetheless, I creep down the creakiest stairs known to man, there is no hiding my descent. I use my iPod light to guide me to the door that plainly reads: toilette. She is snoring deeply, I may proceed quietly. I open the door and it makes a creak akin to a fart. I pause... she's still snoring. I enter fully and immediately rip my shorts off and sit myself down. GAH, the door is still slightly open. I reach forward like Mufassa trying to save himself from falling off of the cliff and then I realize: my own ass is my Scar.. I ERUPT in a horrific cacophony that I attribute to the canned lentils I ate earlier in the day and I can only describe the force with which air exited me as "farting hurricanes." It's gale force winds that could bestow flight upon a blue whale. Once mine ass has had its say, I freeze, screaming silently and listening. She has stopped snoring.. PHOQUE. I console myself by knowing that I can blame it on the six year old if I have to, in much the same mentality as this creepy ass little girl:

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Effects of Laziness: YouTube Rabbit Hole

You know those days when your parents drop you off at your host mom’s house at 8:30 in the morning because they have a flight to catch back to the States and you clearly can’t go with them, so you just lay in bed from then until 8 at night watching The Walking Dead, Modern Family and other  shows until your eyes hurt and you question your existence? 

Yeah, me either.

No, but I totally do because that has been my life ALL day today. I'm pretty damn sure I'm near developing bed sores from my level of inactivity. I'm making Stephen Hawking look like a gold medal gymnast.

So, what have I done with myself other than watch too much of The Walking Dead (there is no such thing) and stare longingly at the jar of peanut butter on my desk?? I have watched an unhealthy and unfathomable amount of YouTube videos. Things I don't even care about, like a 16 minute makeup tutorial that I only endured because it was done by Jenna Marbles and I love her. I sat through a 13 minute video where some questionable gay (no h8) and this British girl laughed at how they pronounced words differently. In fact, right toward the end, my internet quit unexpectedly and you know what I did? I found that damn video again because I was so intrigued as to how the British girl was going to try to read a sentence from The Hunger Games in an American accent. She was awful. I happened upon some quirky science experiment videos, magic sand, magnetic putty, and somehow found my way to Honey Boo Boo...

So what's my point? here it is - holy shit, my door just opened on its own.................. now that I'm safe, my first thoughts were that it was either a zombie, and I would soon see a hand reach through the crack, or it was the turtle that inhabits this fine residence. The uncomfortable reality is that the turtle is more likely.. or is it?? Sorry. Huge distraction from "the point" - when you have literally nothing to do, not a god damn thing, and you subject yourself to hours of YouTube videos, you will get sucked down a rabbit hole. A very uncomfortable and furry hole where rabbits claw at your eyes and try to disembowel you with their horrid, yellow teeth.

I would say that my worst rabbit hole experience was today, when I began my YouTube expedition with the Marry the Night video by Lady Gaga. She is not the most normal person, granted, however, I never thought I would end up where I did after I regained consciousness in reality.

I want you to guess. Are you guessing?

Live horse births.

Yes. I got from point A: Lady Gaga, to point 'whatthefuck:' live horse births.

I can't unsee that. I mean, just imagine a horse coming out of another horse. It's long bony legs and hooves! I didn't JUAN to see that! Nonetheless, I watched. I even scrubbed backwards at one point to be like, "huh, how the hell did that come out of there and end up over there?"

My point is, friends, don't be a fucking loser like me because you will develop a headache and end up witnessing live births. I consider myself lucky; live horse birth seems relatively tame compared to what else you could stumble upon. God forbid you had to watch an aye-aye give birth or be born because they are the absolute ugliest creatures that mother nature has ever thought up. I'm pretty sure they're the hate child of a bat and Wormtail from Harry Potter.

 

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Now, the only thing that would be worse than watching that be born is watching it eat its own placenta. Gah, imagine if it tried to hug you!?

Halloween in a Foreign Country

This post is the child of my sudden realization that I will be missing Halloween, the most revered of all holidays that are not Christmas and Thanksgiving, in the United States. You know, I wouldn't be as upset about missing Halloween had I been able to make the biggest zombie walk in all of Europe that was held in the city where I currently reside. My father happened to be visiting that weekend and I didn't think it too kind to tell him I'd rather be with the rest of the freaks in this town walking like a god damn zombie for a mile. But honestly... missing the biggest zombie walk in Europe? Cut me a break, baby Jesus.

Reasons Halloween in the United States is superior:

1. It's expected of me to have at least two to three costumes because Halloween is not one night. It's like a three day thing. Let us celebrate multiple personality disorder and cos-play.

I'm talkin' blood-lusting zombie to smooth-as-velvet greaser to fucking Jack Sparrow. I once was Edward Scissor Hands and wore a leather coat. my mother's leather coat. backwards. get at me.

My chameleon status.

Note how zombie me fails to have feet.. clearly, I ate them myself. Also, I refuse to draw hands. That's why zombie me's left arm looks like a skinny penis and Jack.. has uncircumcised penis arms. I'm actually just noticed Jack's arms. I'm appalled. Greaser me is fly as fuck, however. Can we talk about those purple shades? I may or may not have those in real life and I may or may not wear them regularly.

2. In the United States, it's only mildly frowned upon to go from house to house past, like, 9th grade in high school. I continued to go until, well, now. I was never shunned or spat upon but I feel like here in France (where apparently it's considered inappropriate to smile at people on the street) I would be seriously judged. In french. I also don't know how to say "trick or treat" outside of my mother tongue and I feel like stumbling my way through the closest thing to it: "give me all of your candy," would seem like a threat.

Here is Audecdote and I. Clearly, she is Bellatrix Lestrange and I am supposed to be an asylum escapee, however, I look more like Ozzy Osbourne post bat-devouring. We were in our senior year, I believe.

3. In America, we have a wonderful love of scaring the shit out of ourselves! Hence all of the seasonal, murderous hayrides, haunted houses, disturbing porch displays with motion-activated screaming mummies, the Halloween movies on constant repeat on television, our use of black cats as a scapegoat for our shitty luck, and the obesity in a cup that is Pumpkin Spice Lattes from Starbucks (oh, how I long to suckle at your teat). Contrastingly, in France.. I have yet to see a pumpkin, much less a god damn gourd with those horrific warts!

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Sweet fuckery, that gourd's mother HATED him! Can I ask how that is even evolutionarily advantageous?? Yes, let me look like exposed body fat, terminal acne and a Hagrid's scrotum all at once, that'll keep me on top. However.. I miss them.

The only reason Halloween might be better in Europe is for the ladies. In the States, Halloween is your one chance to dress like a complete slut and be only semi-judged for it. In Europe, apparently they dress like sluts on the reg:

That's "slutwalk" if you didn't catch it.

 I'm going to miss being in the limousine of death, driven by a middle-aged man with red eyes and a mullet and his female (?) cohort. Then there was being dragged out of said limo by chainsaw-wielding clowns. sigh.. it's just not the same.

The Day of 18 Holes

What could be more perfect for a reunion than an 8:30 tee-time of 18 holes of golf. I'm sure many many people wouldn't protest. I, however, only find golf to be fun: 


a. When I hit the ball well
b. When it is limited to between six and nine holes (nine is pushing it..)
c. When I have a golf cart to drive recklessly - this is a must.


Now, seeing as how I'm not a very accomplished golfer, only "b" and "c" are usually pretty realistic while "a" happens only once in a blue moon, or as my Dad said to me when I had a surprisingly nice shot, "even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while."


Let's just say, I started the day with my first drive, like anyone else, however, I managed to hit the ball at a ninety degree angle to the right. Fuck. Also, I was golfing with my Dad, my sister's husband's Dad and his nephew who was closer to their age than mine. Meanwhile, the husband, his two brothers and another kid my own age (all in their fresh twenties) went off golfing together... with a pack of bud light lime. I had a hat that made me look like an Asian tourist, a second hand set of golf clubs, less than half of my dignity, and was rolling with the old men. Also, I forgot my golf shoes that are two sizes too big and ended up wearing top siders.


Things really didn't change from hole to hole. I hit the ball like shit, put like shit, and swore a lot more than should be allowed -- hold on, I just witnessed a dog take a shit; so carefree they are. I told my Dad that I "fucking hated this." There is nothing worse than golfing like shit in a group of people that can golf well. It's the whole waiting factor. The fact that people actually have to wait for you because you suck at hitting a ball off of the ground is beyond mortifying. I'm also weirdly uncomfortable bending my knees and jutting my butt out - some clubs are just too disproportionately short. My Dad just patted me on the back and called me a good sport. I wanted to rage flail.


By hole seven or eight, this was everywhere you looked:

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Hardcore Japanese beetle orgies. I mean hardcore. This is, from what we see, a monogamous relationship. The golf course literally had dozens of beetles on top of one another every four feet, not to mention the ones that were flying around attached to each other. In the middle of this golf shit show, I thought, at least someone is having a good time.

I was given the opportunity to bail after hole nine but my horrifically beautiful conscience told me that this was for my Dad and not for me, so I stayed. He repaid me by peeing at the tee-off on hole ten. Broad daylight, an open golf course, and he's just peein' away. Not surprisingly, this was the hole that, when I went to drive, completely missed the ball and ended up sending a cheeseburger-sized patch of grass soaring.

I can't tell you the number of times I hit the ball way into the rough and just kind of kicked it out onto the fairway. Karma bit me in the ass when I did this once. I hit the ball, a great hit might I add, and it ended up ricocheting off of a tree trunk and shooting backwards. I actually managed to hit the ball backwards. Who am I?

Other than almost getting killed by a rogue ball hit by some man with an OBSCENELY saggy stomach, golfing turned out to be not too bad. I learned more from my Dad than I would have if I was drinking bud light with the guys and managed to get a pretty good tan after four and a half hours in the blistering sun. Why do I have to find lessons in things? Fuck. I just wanted a beer. 

Moral of the story: golf is sadistic, golfers are masochistic, but golf with the family somehow makes that okay. Now here is Robin Williams demonstrating all too well how ridiculous golf really is:

That Time I Got Trapped In The Women's Bathroom

I'll preface this with: I am a male. This is important to the story, as indicated by the title of this post.

So, I'm just strolling through JCPenny's, which is nobody's ideal shopping paradise, when I realize that I should probably find a bathroom before I make this place even more of a nightmare by projectile shatting all over a mannequin. I look up and see a sign that has this picture on it, more or less:

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Ah. A woman, a man, a child, and Professor X - everyone can use this bathroom, even mutants.

I follow the ceiling signs and finally find the bathroom. Now, mind you, I have been doing this brisk walk for fear of an early bomb toss, so I really just plow right into the bathroom without a care and head for a stall.

I sit down in peace and let the good times roll. Everything is peachy. Someone enters the stall next to mine, she has some nicely painted toenails and is most definitely Asian by the look of those toes. To the left of me another person enters the stall. She also has some lovely painted toenails and is most definitely a chubbier, white mom with short spiky blond hair - I can just tell. (If you have never tried guessing at someone's appearance simply based on their feet, give it a go; you may surprise yourself.)

Wow, a lot of women and only women have been coming in and out of this family/mutant friendly bathroom. I start to get nervous and shift around a bit, noticing how ugly my boat shoes must look to all of the pretty, painted toenails around me. I even drop my shorts lower to cover up my hairy legs. All of the sudden, paranoia sets in. I break into a gentle sweat and realize that I should not be here.

I imagine the look of pure disgust and shame that spiky-haired mother would give me as she wraps a protective arm around her young daughter while I exit the incriminating stall. What a sick mother fucker, is all she would think while she shook her head in slow motion. The daughter would be crying, of course, with nothing but pure fear in her eyes as she looked at me. At this point, I'm convinced I'm a terrible person.

Some girl has this horribly loud walkie-talkie and it sounds like she is getting paged by the store. Naturally, I assume she has been sent to find me for violating women's rights or something. But she, too, sits in a stall. Then, who I assume to be her grandmother, also sits in a stall and takes an obscene amount of toilet paper, wipes once and leaves. THIS IS MY NIGHTMARE.

Finally, I have waited for about 15 minutes... the coast has just cleared after walkie-talkie granddaughter taught grandmother how to dry her hands with an air dryer. I whip my shorts up, don't take the time to flush and book it out of there, only to be greeted by my friend, whom I was with, and some sales employee he had enlisted in the search for me. Apparently, I had been paged throughout the entire JCPenny's, while I was trapped in a women's bathroom, surrounded by glossy toenails.

To end, I glanced at the bathroom door. It said WOMEN'S BATHROOM. So clearly, JCPenny's needs some ceiling signs that match what's on the actual door for God's sake.