La Poulette

Tastes like chicken.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Ok, so I could've done without the second helping of ice-cream. Shoot me.


We are having dinner with the Purebred's brother and his wife in Paris. One tries to impress, therefore one tries to don a suitable outfit for the occasion - a simple halter-neck summer dress should do the trick, one thinks. A tad tight, but one imagines that one has enough confidence to pull it off. One is youthful enough, no?

Dinner involves the brother and the wife, their 7-year old kid and another couple with a cute little 8 year-old girl. We eat, we drink, we eat some more, we talk (or rather they talk - I smile at the appropriate occasions and make a few brave attempts at formulating sentences in French). The kids do whatever it is kids do in the playroom and finally go to bed. Which takes some help from the adults, so I duly volunteer to help the Purebred with the task (my college babysitting experience should come in handy, I think pompously. Plus, one should never miss an opportunity to score extra points with the Purebred kin).

Oh they are cute, the kids are, cosy in their little PJ's, all smug and snug in their little kid beds. Then the little girl looks at me, turns to the Purebred and asks:

- C'est ton amoureuse? (Is that your girlfriend?)

Awww. He smiles, confirms cheerfully and continues tucking her in. But the little one's curiosity hasn't been satisfied. She eyes me suspiciously turns back to him and goes:

- Elle est enceinte? (Is she pregnant?)

The smile plastered on my face freezes into place. The Purebred laughs and tries to make a joke out of the situation, but his words rush past my ears. The little. French. Bitch.

One will give one's skinny halter-neck summer dress to people who's stomach doesn't blow up after one helping too many. But one will surely not save it for a little girl who will never fit into it anyway, given all the croissants and foie gras she's being raised on.



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