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Forget Paris

October 6, 2010

Image Via: Thoushaltnotcovet

I arrived at a dark little bistro in Soho to meet my very cute, very French date.

I met Jack at a birthday party for a friend and he was very handsome, though I could not understand much of he was saying with his thick French accent. I don’t dig the accent thing. Here’s why: Humor is the number one most important thing to me. If you are making me laugh, we can fall in love. Well that, and some red-hot chemistry. My concern with a language barrier is something gets lost in translation and when you miss a flight, you lose your passport, you get a flat tire in a monsoon…having a sense of humor is SO important, and I actually don’t know how you can do without it.

Jack showed up, looking hotter than the first time I met him in a suit. He was very well dressed. I liked him because he too was divorced with a child so he could relate to much of my life, even if i couldn’t really understand what he was saying. He showed up for the date and immediately excused himself to smoke outside. How very French. I watched him inhale the Marlboro Red as though it were the last cigarette on earth and was just praying he wouldn’t smell when he walked back into the restaurant.

In the first 20 minutes of our conversation I misunderstood almost everything he said.
“You work out with a trainer?”
“You are a trainer.”
“OHHHHHH okay… you are a trader! Okay, okay. That makes more sense, given where you work.”
This is how our conversation carried on for a good hour. I felt terrible. I smiled like moron while he talked. Such an American Darcy, I cursed myself. He could have even told me he was fired that day, and I smiled politely and nodded. Uh-huh. Okay. Yes. Yes. Um Hmmm. No idea. Inside I was just hoping that his english would get better. Or I would miraculously learn French, which was improbable, given the fact that I had studied spanish from 1st grade till junior year of college and still do not speak it fluently, if at all. Sadly, I did sing him a song I learned in French in fourth grade, complete with hand gestures. He told me none of the words were actually French. I think I made the words up, as I didn’t really remember the song. So yes, Jack wasn’t being rude, it just probably was not French. It might have been Russian, Italian, Latin or German, as I was required to take all those languages too. Don’t ask. I can say “Hello, how are you?”, “I can’t complain” in all of those languages, but it really ends there. Apparently my school doubled as a training ground for CIA covert Ops, but I digress.

By our third bottle of wine Jack’s english improved, or I was wearing ear goggles, which are essentially beer goggles, but for your ears. And made out of wine.

Jack knew everything about wine, but not in a pretentious way (See: Pretension Is A Four Letter Word). It was in natural French kind of way, and I liked it because it just seemed really authentic and second nature and he seemed quite passionate about it. Passion, check. Jack, who I felt was very conservative at first, started to loosen up quite a bit. He begins to tell me I am his American fantasy girl, the one he always hopes will sit next to him on the plane to France but never does. Before you know it got a little too heavy in the romance department. I felt like I was riding on the train with Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy in Before Sunrise, yet I didn’t want to be on that train. Here is something else about me. I don’t love romance. Let me re-phrase, I do love romance, I just have a twisted view of what I think is romantic.

For example, this would be romantic:
You make me laugh so hard I hit my head on the table, which in turn makes you laugh because you in fact have a nervous laugh like I do. We are laughing so hard at my injury that the couple at the table next to us yells at us and asks us to be quiet. We then fight with the neighbors and gang up on them together which makes us fast best friends. The next day you send me an ice pack with a note from the table that says I give good head. THAT is romantic. Sick and twisted, yet romantic.
Holding my hand anywhere: romantic
Showing me that you are into me: romantic.
Just checking in to say hello or that you asking how I am: romantic.
Giving me a piggy ride down a side street that is over-run with rats because they are my biggest fear: romantic.
Telling me you want to watch a sunset with me and sing me song, just makes me nauseous and uncomfortable. I know that’s probably terrible and hallmark may send me some sort of cease and desist for writing this in a public forum, but it’s how I feel. I don’t like contrived romance. Or romantic romance. I like to be surprised. Surprise me. Buy me one of those pipes that are made of black licorice because I am the only person in America who actually buys them (yes, I do buy them. Really).

Jack tells me all the things he would like to do with me and all the places he would like to take me, which I find sweet and endearing. He seems like a very sweet gentle soul, a great dad and an overall good person. He tells me one day he would like to wake up with me in the morning to the smell of warm toast.
“You mean french toast?”
“No. warm toast.”
Warm toast? Is that a sexy smell? Kind of sounds gross in bed no? And itchy. I want to wake up to the smell of aftershave and soap. But warm toast?
He was being incredibly respectful and a full gentleman. Some of my dates could have learned a thing or two from Frenchie. I spoke to soon. Wait for it…wait for it…
“I probably shouldn’t tell you this. But I have a very big dick.”
Insert sound of record screeching to a halt.
Blink, blink, rapid blink.
WHAT? I wasn’t sure if I was shocked by what he said or the fact that his english was suddenly perfect. Oh no! Wait…wait a second! Did he…did he think “dick” meant something else in English? What just happened here???
“People always tell me how huge it is. They are shocked.”
Nope, he knows the definition.
“Oh. Wow. Well. That’s…huh (furrowing my brow). Good to know… I guess?”
“I probably shouldn’t tell you that i guess. Just thought you should know.”
“Oh. Well…thank you.” I guess I will just add that into my Filofax under “Jack’s penis size,” and if I need this data I will refer to it accordingly.

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9 Comments leave one →
  1. October 6, 2010 11:28 am

    Hahaha, I am actually laughing out loud!

    And your ideas of romance are spot on. The guy I’m dating at the moment gave me a tiny little pig. He had two in his car and he thought he’d give me one ‘for writing inspiration.’ BLESS. Grr, we girls are so easy. Which makes it so difficult to understand why guys don’t know how to romance most of the time!

    Oh and this: “By our third bottle of wine Jack’s english improved, or I was wearing ear goggles, which are essentially beer goggles, but for your ears. And made out of wine.”
    I love this.

    • October 6, 2010 10:28 pm

      Thank you!!! Ear goggles, it’s my new thing! We have all been guilty of wearing them at one time or another!

  2. Kim permalink
    October 6, 2010 12:50 pm

    This is by far the funniest Darcy yet. Keep on writing!

  3. VReader permalink
    October 6, 2010 4:17 pm

    I laughed out loud reading this. Well done! You crack me up! I can picture the entire thing in my head.

  4. October 6, 2010 9:52 pm

    Hahaha, awesome story. Where do you find these guys?!

  5. loveandcoco permalink
    October 10, 2010 8:24 pm

    Ohhhh dear. One of the best bad-date stories ever. You should write into magazines haha


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