Tuesday, January 11, 2011
La Mom should have been happy with her Christmas haul this year, what with a Gerard Darel handbag and a certificate to the Four Seasons spa under the tree.
But what La Mom really wanted was something that would simplify her life.
Like a French wife, for example.
I completely wigged out my ultra-bourgeois French neighbor by suggesting this very solution as we were sipping tea and commiserating about our hectic routines of work, school, and family.
(Sidebar: It’s good to know that French people nod and smile politely when they have no idea what you’re talking about, just like I did for my first three years in Paris.)
La Voisine: I feel like I never have the time to devote to Mathis’ homework. You know how it is – when you get home from work, it’s dinner, bath, and bed for les enfants. And then I have to cook a proper meal for my husband.
La Mom: I know what you mean. You know what we need? Une femme.
La Voisine (Smiling and nodding politely): Ah bon?
Femme is one of those tricky words that mean a couple of different things – like “wife” and “woman”. So after I convinced La Voisine that I was a) not coming out as a lesbian and b) not suggesting a little cinq-a-sept tryst, I decided that I should write a letter to St. Nicolas Sarkozy so he would know what to give La Mom for Christmas 2011:
Dear St. Nicolas Sarkozy,
I was a very good girl in 2010. I learned how to make my belle-mère’s parmentier aux canard and even cussed out a guy who broke in line at La Poste in perfect French! Since I was so good, I thought I could write to you a bit early this year.
What I really want for Christmas is a French wife. Pourqoui, you may ask?
1) She always looks fantastique.
When My French Wife goes to pick up the dry cleaning, she’s always dressed to kill, with perfect hair and makeup to boot. The only way La Mom wears makeup while running errands is if she face-planted from fatigue the night before without taking off her Bare Minerals.
2) She gets the good stuff.
La Mom may not know the difference between an onglet and a tournedos, but My French Wife knows exactly what to buy and how to cook it. Bonus: when she kisses up to the butcher, he throws in a chicken cordon bleu filet for the French Fries.
3) She knows how to get her way.
While smoke spirals out of La Mom’s ears when a civil servant tells her “non”, My French Wife cajoles, flatters, and flirts until any French fonctionnaire is putty in her hands.
4) She wears nothing but La Perla underwear when she vaccums.
Dammit, Big Cheese! I told you to stay away from the computer when I'm logged into the blog! Anyway, she’s My French Wife, not yours.
at 12:26 PM