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Friday, December 28, 2007

The French Lesson

When my friend called me earlier yesterday afternoon, and asked me if I'd hang out with a French girl visiting from Paris, I never imagined I'd wind up in the "personal care" section at Duane Reade with her later that evening. There was a group of people going to see a show, and my job was to keep this Parisian company until the show was over, at which point we'd all meet up somewhere for a drink. My friend said she was cute, and that she was open to meeting new people. He said I could consider it a date, if I wanted to, or a babysitting gig. It was my choice. He rushed me off the phone to get back to work so I didn't get the details of how he knew her. All I got was a phone number and a name. "Just call," he said. "What the hell else do you have to do tonight?" So I called.

Her English was broken, and her French accent thick, but we managed to agree on a cafe at which to meet. The conversation in the cafe was a bit strained because of the language barrier, but we managed to kill an hour discussing what she was doing in New York, the strength of the Euro versus the dollar, as well as a number of other subjects. She seemed uncomfortable as we spoke, and I asked her if she was okay, thinking she was simply frustrated with our inability to communicate fluidly.

She blushed, and said in her thick French accent, "I am feeling, how do you say...." and then she said something in French that I didn't understand. She could tell by my confusion that I was lost so she tried again in English.

"I am const...(something in French) constipe? Is that how you say?"

"I'm not sure what you're trying to say," I responded.

"Em, when you can not go toilette," she said, nervously laughing.

"Constipated?," I said.

"Oui. Constepteted," she retorted.

"C-o-o-nst-i-i-i-pay-ted," I replied slowly and deliberately. I figured, if she can't shit in America, she better know how to say so in English.

"I can not go for one week since I come here," she said.

"Happens to the best of us," I said trying to put her at ease, wondering if I was on a hidden camera show. "There are things you can take for that," I continued.

"What sings?" she asked.

"Laxatives."

"No. I try zat. No good."

"Suppositories?," I said, trying not to laugh at this poor girl.

"Oui. Oui," she said excitedly. "Where I can buy zis?"

"Any drug store should have them," I said.

"Can you help me? I am embarrass," she responded.

"Depends what you mean by 'help,'" I said. "I can go with you to buy them, but that's where my 'help' ends."

She clearly didn't get the joke, not that I was even remotely joking. She was cute, but suppository insertion is more of a 4th or 5th date thing, not that I was considering this a date anymore anyway.

"You can help me to buy zem because of my bad Anglais?," she asked.

"Sure," I replied pseudo-enthusiastically. Like my friend said - what the hell else did I have to do?

So at approximately 8:30 pm last night, I found myself asking an employee at a Duane Reade on the Upper East Side where I could find suppositories, while Frenchie stood there like she was ready to die of embarrassment. In less than two weeks, I went from overpaying for condoms I'd never use to looking for suppositories with some French chick I'd met an hour earlier. The suppositories weren't cheap either, and although I never let a woman pay on a first date, she was on her own on this one. Besides, the Euro is so strong nowadays she could've bought enough of those cone like pellets to allow all of Paris to shit for a month.

Once the purchase was made, she thanked me for my kindness, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and went home. I never did meet up with the group for drinks, but hopefully French girl is feeling a little lighter today.

14 comments:

alan said...

You buy her suppositories and all you get is a kiss on the cheek?

jen said...

How she could even admit to that on a date is beyond me. Maybe it's a cultural thing, or maybe she was REAAAALLLYY blocked up.

mo said...

Sounds like there's potential here, if she was nice and cute. I'd call her again to hang out...just make sure she thoroughly washed her hands because you know where they've been.

harry said...

People outside the U.S. aren't as uptight about that stuff as we are, but still...that's pretty damn weird.

rebecca said...

Wow, some date!

Don'tCallMeMarvin said...

Not an uncommon thing for those in an unfamiliar environment eating the type of processed crap we have here in America. Could have been a good opportunity for you to get kinky with a French chick, though.

Anonymous said...

Quand je suis arrivé aux Etats-Unis premièrement, ma mère m'a dit, "Ne manges pas la nourriture." C'était avant que j'ai essayé la pomme de terre. Maintenant, je mange les pommes de terre frites, les pommes de terre soufflées, tout les jours je mange les pommes de terre. Au revoir.

Miranda said...

Et ben voila! Il y a la raison!
Les suppositoire ne sont pas necessaire,si vous ne mangez pas les pommes de terre.
C'est poétique!

Zero said...

You should go to her hotel room and clog her toilet with tons of shit, just for spite.

Limey said...

J'ai envie de chier

rebecca said...

Anonymous and Miranda are show-offs!

Nice Jewish Guy said...

Ah, you're all full of shit. ;)

Miranda said...

Er... no.... far from it. I just speak French and was having a little fun.

Yankee said...

That has to be one of the BEST STORIES EVER! I've got tears, tears, I tell u! You need like a tshirt line for all these stories -
(1) I hate the making games
(2) I'm allergic to latex!
and now the gem:
(3)"Oui Oui suppositoriees!"