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I am great with children. Ask any of my friends who are parents and they will tell you that kids love me.
I believe there are two reasons for this: One, kids are very intuitive and they can sense that I have no desire to kidnap them.
Two, I always keep bacon in my pocket. This is how I get them to do things like fetch and roll over.
Even though my own maternal clock was killed in a tragic babysitting accident fifteen years ago, I still get to experience the joys of parenting by acting as a surrogate MILF to my friends’ children.
I look forward to the day I can finally sit my friend K’s son down and give him”the talk”.
Here’s how I picture it: Just after he’s finished blowing out the six candles on his birthday cake, I’ll take Whatshisface aside and tell him I need to talk to him about something very important. He’ll say that he loves it when I talk to him about things because I’m smart and ravishing and an excellent role model. Also, his friends have a crush on me.
I’ll tell him that sex isn’t meant for little kids. Then I’ll ask if his friends have any extremely well-endowed older brothers.
When the conversation is over, he’ll give me a big hug and say that I’m the best non-birth mom he’s ever had. That’s when I’ll point to my lower abdomen and say, “Hear that, uterus? You’ve been PWNED!”
He probably won’t get the joke, but whatever. Humor is subjective.
For my eighteenth birthday, I asked my parents if I could get my tubes tied. Instead, they sent me on a school-organized trip to Europe.
“You can practice your French,” my mother said.
Growing up, my mother wanted to learn another language. Unfortunately, because she lived on a farm in the lonely areola of Saskatchewan (instead of objects, I prefer to personify inanimate provinces), her only options were “Hutterite” and “Basic Cow”. By enrolling her firstborn daughter in both French Immersion and accordion lessons, she able to live her childhood dreams vicariously through me.
For ten days my classmates and I sat on a school bus, looking out the windows as we drove through France, Monaco, Nice, Switzerland and Italy. We slept in filthy hotels. We were groped by filthy old men. It was very educational.
One night while in Paris, we decided to sneak out of the hotel and go to the bar.
When it comes to French couture, I am practically a Mensa. I put my hair in french-braids and wore my most European- looking jeans. I find that the cameltoe really brings out my french accent.
We walked into the first pub we saw and sat down at the row of stools next to the bar. I ordered first.
“Je veux un vodka slime.”
The bartender looked at me like I was Marie Antoinette.
“I am no slime! Why do you call me the slime??”
Instead, I asked for a beer. Only I pronounced it “bièrrrre.” I have this really sexy way of rolling my r’s where I sound like I’m choking, but I look like I’m in the middle of making love.
The French man sitting next to me looked over and smiled. I could tell he was french because he was gnawing on a baguette. Also, he had offensive body odor. Because I am so engaging, naturally he started chatting me up.
He told me that he was single. I told him that my Canada included Quebec. I ran my fingers through my long, shiny hair. He sweated.
He asked if I wanted to climb the Eiffel Tower. “Climbez vous le tour Eifel?”
“Mais oui,” I said.
“C’est tres grande.” He stretched his arms out as far as they would go. His french armpits were causing me to get nauseous.
Just as I was about to serenade him with the Canadian French National anthem, my friend Nikki elbowed me in the shoulder.
“We gotta get out of here,” she said. She pointed to the television mounted above the bar. There, on the screen, was a naked woman lying on a bear skin rug, pleasing herself with what looked to be a Kitchenaid blender.
Horrified, I looked to the French man for guidance. That’s when I noticed that the zipper of his pants was undone and he had his penis in the hand.
“Zee Eiffel Tower,” he said, motioning toward his groin.
I told him it looked more like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Then I grabbed my purse and left.
When I got home, my parents were waiting for me at the airport.
“How’d it go?” my Mother asked. Did you have fun? What were the locals like? Did you tell them that your Mother can speak a little French, too?”
She asked me what I thought of the Eiffel Tower. I told her it was much smaller in person.
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*Coming Up On The Next Post: The (fictional) story about a blogger who became so obsessed with changing her blog header that finally she couldn’t take it any more, so she staged an intervention for herself followed by a few hours of life-coaching then changed her template to one that doesn’t offer the customizable header option.
Just Making Convo 
Your story reminds me of a cheesy pick-up line I used to use on older women when I was in college: “I’ll let you be my mother if you let me be your Oedipus.” (That line never did work)
HA! Maybe you should have said that you would be the mother and she could be the Oedipus.
Nothing turns a college girl off more than the idea of having a bastard son.
It helps a lot when speaking foreign languages to use an accent which you imagine your audience might have when speaking English and apply it to English words. For example, just add the article “ze” instead of “the” to any noun and the phrase is automatically French. “Ze bar” automatically is understood by all French people to mean “the bar” because that’s what they sound like when they say “the bar” in English. I had a tragic dust-up in Italy when I lived there years ago because I forgot the word for “jam” in Italian, so I tried the cognate ‘preservativo’. Sadly, I realized too late that I had just asked my 75-year-old signora for a condom with my toast and cemented my reputation with her as not just a slut, but one with a prodigious appetite for sex at even the earliest hours of the day.
Also, the phrase “maternal clock was killed in a tragic babysitting accident” is the most awesome phrase ever. I am stealing it.
Were you put up for adoption shortly after birth? Because I swear we’re related.
I once spent six months teaching English in Guadalajara. Because my roommate (also a teacher) and I were so passionate about our jobs, we would spend every weekend hitting up the nightclubs, then calling in sick the following Monday.
One night, after being plowed with liquor by latino men who considered it a measure of status to date a pasty white foreigner as opposed to one of those boring, olive-skinned model-types (and really, who could blame them?), I decided to pull out my non-existent Spanish skillz. In other words, I would take English words and and “ada” to the end.
Long story short, one of the guys offered me a cigarette and I was so drunk I lit the other end. I tried to laugh it off, fluttering my eyelashes and telling him I was soooo embarassed.
“Jajajaja! Estoy Embarazada!!!”
Had it not been for the one guy who actually spoke English, I’d probably still be oblivious to the fact that Embarazada actually means “Pregnant”.
“He told me that he was single. I told him that my Canada included Quebec. I ran my fingers through my long, shiny hair. He sweated.”
This line is so funny it makes Woody Allen look like a public access show on refurbishing and staining backyard decks. You are another level of hilarious. *swoon*
I agree. Woody should have employed you to write the script for Midnight in Paris. Now that is an Allen film I would have PAID to see (and everyone who knows me knows I don’t add to Woody’s incestuous coffers).
I feel the same way about Woody Allen. I keep waiting to hear that he’s dumped Soon Yi for one of his daughters/granddaughters.
“…it makes Woody Allen look like a public access show on refurbishing and staining backyard decks.”
That line is so funny it makes my funny line look like an episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond,” immediately followed by a 12 hour marathon of “Tori And Dean: Inn Love”.
Yeah. What Will sez …
I never realised you needed to leave Canada to find a Frenchman. Your mother must have been desperate for grandchildren.
Oddly enough, if you live in the west, you could go your whole life without ever running into an actual French speaker. If it wasn’t for our cereal boxes and Channel 11, we would all just assume that Chinese was our second official language.
I had no idea that I’ve been to France so many times! Or that there were so many Eiffel Towers! God DAMN the interesting shit I have not been paying attention to. Like take kids for instance. I pay absolutely zero attention to kids. Mostly because they’re fucking kids and they suck and I have stifle the urge to stab myself in the ovaries when I look at them or consider having one of them stretch my ho-haa into the size of a watermelon.
Yeah, I said it.
Stretch. Like Stretch Armstrong. Remember that shit? Only it doesn’t snap back together when you’re done with it.
Have I ever told you that you’re smart and ravishing and an excellent role model?
Have I ever told you that you’re smart and ravishing and hilarious AND (based on your comment), you have an extremely taut ho-haa that most women would kill for?
Just thought you should know.
I know a woman who had something similar happen to her in Spain, except the guy was another patron in the bar and instead of having his penis just in his hand, he actually pulled it out and placed it on her thigh. And she was wearing a short skirt and that part of her thigh was BARE.
Oh, and the last time I was in France I wanted a Heineken. Only they didn’t understand Heineken so I had to yell EINEKEN!
Okay, I just threw up a little in my mouth.
I mean, it’s one thing to be a dirty perv, but to actually slap your dirty pervness on a complete stranger’s knee?? I would never leave my house again.
Yes, that “H” really does mess them up, doesn’t it?
Bschooled, this was so HILARIOUS I found myself laughing like Piers Morgan! I don’t know if you get Piers up in Canada (if I was in Alaska would it be ‘down in Canada?’), but he has a way of laughing that gets all breathy when he can’t hold it in any longer. He usually laughs that way when he is interviewing other Englishmen or someone particularly funny.
Here in Las Vegas, guys with unzipped trousers ask the ladies if they would like to ride ‘The Stratosphere”:
http://tinyurl.com/3gsmhod
One of your finest posts Bschooled!!
HA! That is hilarious. Men who live in cities boasting enormous structures sure have egos, don’t they?
Yes, we get Piers Morgan. I used to watch him on “Britain’s Got Talent”. Though it was only recently that I figured out his name was Piers and not “Pierce”. I’m pretty sure I suffer from British-accent triggered hearing impairment. ;)
Oh dear. I’m a tad jealous of how funny this is. Not sure whether to like you or hate you… or wish you a plague of Frenchmen!
Ha! I hope you decide to like me.
I don’t know what this Frenchmen plague is, exactly, but it sounds like something that would make the Bubonic plague seem almost harmless in comparison. ;)
By the sounds of it, you already saw some French bubones.
Still not sure if my jealous streak will let me like or hate you. so I decided to follow you instead. In a bloggy way, not the creepy stalker way that would mean you keep noticing your bins have been rummaged through and your bedroom window has a nose print on it.
Thanks! But honestly, either way works. Like I always say, “Stalkers are just friends who can’t come within 500 feet of you.”
Loved you calling the bar tender slime! I wouldn’t ever attempt the French roll. You’re brave!
Thanks, but I can’t take all the credit. My parents are big fans of flamenco music.
I was practically raised by Charo.
Can we just distribute a global e-mail blast letting all men know that we do not want to see their cocks unless we specifically say, ‘hey dude, show me your cock’? Because yuck.
Yes! Let’s do it!
Do you by chance have a distribution list for all men? Or, all men who have a tendency to show their cocks, at least?
Funny I would have thought as a Canadian, your French would be better. Don’t they teach English as a second language up there?
Anywhere west of Manitoba and you might as well be living in the states. We teach ESL, but 95% of the students are from either Asia or Latin America.
Oh dear.
Oh. He showed you his oui-oui,
Ha!
And I said non non!
Funny, I shall share this with my kid-free troops.
The bar story reminded me of when I was 21 and was at a bar feeling very “adult” and “sexy” – I went outside to wait for my friend after a successful night of flirting and sat down on a bench, soon to be joined by a smelly old booze hound (a smell I now associate with home.) It was summer and I was wearing shorts. He looked over at me. I thought smugly “this old man (probably 33) is going to hit on me because I am HOT” (or something to that effect.) He looked at my crossed leg and said “Nice vein.” Did I mention at 20 I had this little varicose vein in my right leg? (since collapsed). Ouch.
HA!! This killed me.
If it makes you feel better, one night when I was 18, my friends and I went to the bar to celebrate the birthday of some dude I liked. Because I wanted to impress him, I thought I would make my eyelashes even MORE fluttery by wearing fake ones. About halfway through the night, I noticed that he was staring at me. So to kick things up a notch, I started grinding the table. When he tapped me on the shoulder, I assumed he was going to compliment me on my sexiness. But instead he pointed to my eye and said, “Um, just so you know, you have a big hairy thing hanging off your eyebrow.”
I moved shortly after that.
“I find that the cameltoe really brings out my french accent.”… Ooh la la
I never knew that cameltoe brought out French accents. I do know that it helps the visually impaired read lips.
Well, it brings it out indirectly. Think about it:
French is the language of love.
Love comes from the heart.
The heart pumps blood to the circulatory system.
You can reach the circulatory system via the vagina. (If you’re taking the scenic route.)
The cameltoe is the vagina’s most prominent feature.
Therefore, the bigger the cameltoe, the better the French accent.
(There’s also a calculation involved, but I can’t remember it offhand.)
“I find that the cameltoe really brings out my french accent.”…
…… and an unexplainable craving for escargot….
Oh, Rod. How I miss you. I feel like a cameltoe that has lost the will to not breathe.
(Er, you know what I mean.)
why aren’t my stories as awesome as yours? you deserve a tv show.
Are you kidding? I love your stories. In fact, I think we should do a show together.
It can be like an exercise travel show sometimes involves extreme couponing. (Only because extreme couponing is the new moderate couponing.) You can even wear your red boxer shorts!
Blunt Delivery sent me here.
Dear baby jesus, am I ever happy she did.
Knowing you are a fan of Blunty means I love you already.
(Normally I wouldn’t use the “L” word so early in the relationship, but what can I say. It just feels right.)
Funny, cameltoe* makes my accent German.
*The male equivalent of cameltoe, I leave it to the more expert linguists to appropriately name this wardrobe malfunction.
Ha! I believe it is referred to as “Grape Smuggling”.
Be grateful he didn’t show you his Louvre!!!!
…or his Latin Quarter. Then again, if I know Bschooled…
Try Latin THREE Quarters!
*Is this thing on?*
Your blog catch phrase says it all – you have a story telling gift that transcends logic. And this: “I find that the cameltoe really brings out my french accent” made me spit coffee on my keyboard, so thanks for that.
PS – Loving the new diggs!
No, thank-you, Doc. Without your support, I might never have had the courage to expose my cameltoe so…er, profusely.
I now feel as if my European experience was sorely lacking. I didn’t have anyone but the hubs show me their penis in France.
Although when we were there they did have a German channel in our hotel room showing a documentary about the making of German porn. And basically, it was a German porno. Maybe it was the same show that was on in the bar? It was on around 8:00 at night, and it wasn’t even a pay per view channel. Just basic TV. I guess their kiddies go to bed early in Europe. I was feeling very puritan at that moment. No bear skins that I can remember though. Or cuisinarts.
Without the bear skin rug and The Schytts playing softly in the background (http://mesmertron.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/swedish-dance-bands-sch1.jpg), it’s nothing more than a mildly-erotic soap opera.
(?? I have no idea what that means.)
Oh B, you are truly a yawning chasm of talent. You have so much facility, no single Zamboni could hope to smooth it properly.
Your words are like Smarties for my optical organs. http://lovelife.typepad.com/my_weblog/images/2007/08/27/smarties_blog.jpg
(Just so you know, Smarties are my favorite!)
You know how to pick ’em girl! Me, I only ended up in a gay bar and wondered why none of the men were interested in me.
Don’t take it personally. Gay men are fickle that way.
Suddenly I have a craving for a baguette…hmmm
I’m gnawing on one right now!