A Pussycat’s Nymphomaniac Diaries – Otherwise Known as My French Bloopers
A week ago, my husband and I were invited to a friend’s birthday party in Paris. It was all in a typical French setting, with mignardices (little cocktail pastries), expensive Champagne and tables full of delicious appetizers fresh form the local bakery. The elegantly dressed crowd was moving from one table to another, delivering enlightened discourses about recent political and cultural topics.
That is, until we were all beurré (boozed up) enough to change the direction of conversation into a way less formal one (not to say painstakingly off-topic).
I really love that part of the evening where everybody, without any exception (be it a renowned public personality or a simple countryman), is hammered to the nth degree to that extend that the subsequent debate completely exceeds the introductory formal environment.
You talk about family, kids, bizarre areas of interest, make jokes about politicians and religious authorities, make fun of various nationalities and related accents – in another words topics that would be considered highly disputable, if not for the fact that you’re officially beurré.
And this is where I come in.
Even without the help of too much Champagne, I can talk for hours praising the life in the countryside (to upset undividedly the snobby Parisians), and complain about how much money we’ve spent on house renovation (as a result sending them directly in an etiquette trauma, from which they will never recover). Boast about my world travels (thus making Paris looking like a backwoods village), and go on about being a house-wife, as though it’s a disease you can catch if you’re not working. I have to admit I never lack material to shock the pants off of the la-de-da Parisians, which to their horror I find enormous pleasure in doing.
However, last weekend I surpassed even myself, when I found myself rather unexpectedly in a hot-topic conversation about intimate parts (which being sober I would never dare to have mentioned in public).
All this was due to my, although very advanced (even in a literary sense), yet still as it turned out limited knowledge of the French language.
With a close group of friends we started to dwell on the subject of astrology, and I wanted to do my share by adding that I’m of the zodiac sign Leo. Proud as I was to be the master of the entire universe, I listed a number of traits that make the sign highly superior. I was almost finished, when out of the blue I had the urge to be cool and somehow original. I added thus in French that Leos (this would be me including) are known to be chaud and excité which in my head was suppose to mean: warmhearted and passionate.
What came out from my mouth though, had nothing to do with what I meant to convey, and as a result I said in French: “I’m horny and aroused” – now, how great is that?! Not that I’m not (thankfully only in bed), but just imagine the reaction of although-liquored-up-yet-still-quite-conscious party guests. I buried my head in the sand, but it was too late. The sentence developed a life of its own and escaped into the crowd.
All of the sudden I had thirty something people starring at me, like I’m a nymphomaniac or something like that.
But that was not even the end of the hot-topic debate. A friend of mine (a Leo of course and 100% French) jumped into the conversation and mentioned that her chatte, which would mean as much as a female cat (and that’s what she meant to say) – but also a pussy, likes to wonder off and not come back for days.
To sum it up: a very formal evening that started with an eloquent narrative in an austere setting, after a few too many glasses of Champagne, turned into a steamy exchange about people being horny, aroused and their pussies going astray.