When I crossed the threshold that is suite 808 this morning, I realized that today was, like the first and second nights of Passover, different from all the other days. If there are 52 Mondays in a year and I’ve walked the earth for 25 years, I’ve experienced at least 1300 Mondays since initial inception, so no difference there. I’ve also experienced at least five flash flood warnings from my iPhone just this summer alone and have worn the black slip dress currently cloaking my body four times in the past two weeks. So what amounts for this disparity?
Why, Bastille Day of course. And if I didn’t know any better, I could have sworn that when I woke up and felt just a little bit more French than I usually do, I was actually inching toward a new reality. Of course, this wasn’t the case — it never will be the case but a girl, she can rêve (that’s French for dream!) and in honor of Bastille Day, Amelia and I have decided that we will embark on a journey we will call The Bastille Day diet.
The first rule is: French girls don’t diet.
The rest appear as follows: consume croissants, run home and change into stripes (Amelia is already wearing them and says if I don’t change, her portion of the diet includes punching me every hour on the hour), drink wine like it is water, locate wine that is cheaper than water, smoke cigarettes (but only the e-kind!), inhale croissants, speak French (holler at Google translate), respond to Americans speaking French in English, not shave (already way ahead on this accord), among other nuances that we believe will manifest as we continue down this road. Check back every hour for updates, don’t even think of wearing a beret and the next time someone asks if you carry almond milk, laugh so hard in his/her face.
Good morning mon petit poulet! That means little chicken and it is a term of endearment but I cannot figure out the plural because the only time I took French was one summer in Nice and wouldn’t you know it, I never studied. Not even before the final, which I got out of by miraculous intervention and left with a B on my report card that I didn’t deserve, but I didn’t argue. Here’s what I do know:
Amelia is not acting French right now. This is a sentence she just said: “he fucking loves titties.” A French person would never say that. As a result of this, I am on strike until she starts acting like a little chicken who studied — but never studied — in Nice again.
Another thing she just said, “I wonder what angle is going to give me the biggest tits.” I will not specify whether she was imitating someone else or wondering in earnest. You can cogitate in the comments below.
I haven’t changed into stripes yet, brb.
I WAS IMITATING SOMEONE.
I just went out for lunch and I know I should have picked up a baguette and some brie and a bottle of wine but I guess my American blood runs deep. That and it is thicker than wine. Literally. Because I’m drinking a smoothie. I will have you know that I ordered said smoothie in French to which the man at Organic Avenue did not respond at all. I also got a quinoa platter that tastes vaguely of probiotic turtle ass so I think I’m going to go downstairs and re-do this whole thing. Croissant, wine, the whole she-bang.
I also forgot to tell you I did not put on suntan lotion this morning. I live life on le (French for the) edge.
Leandra, despite having completely nailed the French accent, is really terrible at this diet. For one, she’s wearing navy which is neither all-black nor festively striped. I am festively striped. Two, she’s drinking coffee with ICE in it. I am forewent ice in the name of Francophilia and ex-patriotism. Three, she’s refusing to call me Amélie despite the fact that I’ve been calling her Pierre Bernard since before she could walk, and so FOUR: I’m five slurps of her frozen lies away from buying a baguette to le whack her with.
Just bolded and italicized where Amelia tried to fake a French accent. Leandra: 1, Amelia: 00. (Titties – get it?)
Someone dead and French is rolling over in his or her grave right now but I just can’t help keep this embellished, black v-neck dress on! I’m not taking off the non-prescription specs either. The most French thing I have done since the last update is probably not finish my entire meal down to the last grain of quinoa. Also, I let the ice in my coffee melt and am now drinking a plastic cup full of lukewarm dirty dishwater. Mmm.
Leandra’s dress is navy. She’s not only bad at the Bastille Day Diet, she’s also color blind. Here are some French things I’ve done so far:
1) Had a glass of wine.
2) Said, “Merde.”
3) Left the office mid-day and took a nap.
4) Had a glass of wine.
On an unrelated note, I like to take Bastille Day as a yearly opportunity to remind my dad about the time when I hadn’t seen him for a whole week because he was traveling. On the day of his return I was so excited for him to come home that I waited by my grandparent’s door like a Golden Retriever and wagged my tail. WELL GUESS WHAT MY DAD DID? He made FRIENDS (like a psychopath) with two French tourists on their way to a museum near my grandparent’s house and invited them over and hung out with them instead of moi. I have never let him forget it since.
Just a heads up: Leandra’s about to come back and tell you her dress is, in fact, black. Don’t listen.
Off topic but related to diets, remember that time we did the Sugar Diet? This fucker is still alive and swimming.
We almost didn’t update because according to French law, we’re not supposed to work after work, naaamean? But we couldn’t end this post without the realest words Kanye has ever spoken:
Oh! And also, we seem to have failed miserably. The French don’t even call this day Bastille Day. They call it Fete Nationale with one of those little hats over the e in fete. Incidentally, long live the American impostors.
Image on the left Courtesy of Vogue.com, Image on the right via Tumblr