It’s official. I’m a real Parisienne.
It doesn’t have anything to do with my clothes, perfume, or certain je ne sais quoi that I’ve tried desperately to cultivate.
It’s because I can cuss somebody out in rush-hour traffic.
You’d think that bearing the fruit of his loins would make Big Cheese proud of me, but no. It’s the fact that I’ve started honking and gesticulating wildly in true Parisian fashion that has him grinning from ear to ear.
Especially since I cracked down on his voiture etiquette after Big Fry was born.
That was then:
Big Cheese (honking): Putain de merde, connard! (translation: unprintable)
La Mom: Honey, get a grip on it! You know how they repeat everything at this age.
Big Fry: Connard! (translation: unprintable)
This is now:
La Mom: If I flip the bird at someone, does that mean “va te faire foutre”?
Big Cheese: Quoi?
La Mom: The other day this guy stopped at a red light, signaled that he was turning right, and started reversing into me. He saw a parking place at the last minute and wanted to back up into it.
Big Cheese: In the middle of traffic? What did you do?
La Mom: Well, first I started laying on the horn and then he yelled at me, so I flipped him off, pulled into the lane of oncoming traffic, rolled down the window and screamed “Va te faire foutre, connard!”
Big Cheese: Je t’aime.
Small Fry: Connard!
