So seeing as it’s now February and just about a week from the dreaded Valentine’s Day, I thought I’d tell a little story about romance (not). And who does romance better than the French right? Wrong.
First of all, ladies, do not be fooled by their fancy accents and confident I-can-pull-this-off-and-still-be-unquestionably-straight attitudes. Men with accents are to be trusted less than men walking fluffy little puppies through the park. If you’re under the impression that you’re the first lady he’s told has that certain “je ne saise quoi”, then you deserve to be played. No offense.
I, personally, have too much pride to truly admit that I got duped on this one. I merely…made a discovery…and then verbally castrated the man-whore later. With that said, meet Pepe:
Pepe (aka Pepe Le Douche…if that much wasn’t clear…) was new to my small Connecticut
hell town; fresh off the boat from living 10
years in Switzerland and France prior to that…I mean really? Let’s disregard
for a moment the fact that it’s seriously slim pickings for my demographic in a
town full of yuppies and old money baby boomers, but an attractive, dark
haired, multilingual European crash lands in your desolate city and you’re NOT
going to pounce? Please. Those qualities alone will turn any stranded, small
town girl’s head; hence the problem. Because even if Pepe liked to play the
dumb, “how do you say” foreigner, he was all too well aware of just how much…
chatte (pardon my incorrect French) he could get off of those assets alone.
Just as so many other timeless love stories begin, Pepe and I met at the local bar (be still my heart). I was getting drinks with some of my guy friends, and I must’ve stuck out being the only female in a group of eight or so boys because, before I could make it to the ladies room, I was stopped by this French dude questioning me about which one my boyfriend was. More preoccupied by the fear that I might not make it to the bathroom in time (too many margaritas), I swiftly pushed him aside and bee lined it for the ladies room (don’t worry…I made it).
I don’t really get what it is with guys and rejection but something about my desperate need to urinate made my oblivious, drunk self all that much more enticing (I know what you’re thinking, sexy right?). From that moment on I couldn’t shake the guy. Ultimately, after a few more drinks and some Français whispered in my ear, I wound up making out with Pepe in the middle of the bar… It was not my finest hour.
Perhaps still a little drunk the next day, I’m recalling the events of the previous evening and thinking to myself “damn, I was the shit last night! Not only did I look great (ha…), I met the most amazing foreigner and he spoke French and…some other languages too and he was so sweet and honest… Score!” So basically folks, this is why we don’t drink and date, but that’s for a later blog…
I must say, Pepe was pretty slick though. He actually made an effort to call me and made plans to get together with me the following week. So imagine my surprise when it’s eleven o’clock at night on that very evening and still no word from Pepe. This would ordinarily send up some flags, but I genuinely figured he was working late (being that he has a very demanding job…as a waiter) so I said "c’est la vie" and went out with one of my girlfriends that was in town (yes they do exist).
Here is where Pepe slipped up: he escorts some blonde (ew) 40-year-old (I would say ew but she had a milf thing going on so, whatever) into the local watering hole where – go figure – I happened to be hanging out with my friends (hooray for awkward moments!).
TANGENT/WORD OF ADVICE: To the wannabe players out there, if you’re going to attempt to work multiple women at the same time, TRY TAKING THEM TO DIFFERENT BARS! Not that I should even offer up these words of advice to you charlatans, but if you’re going to try to be a Casanova, for God’s sake do it right man! This is not Big Love. Normal women WILL care when you parade other dates in front of them, especially women who you are basically standing up at that very moment (ahem), you f*cking idiot. In other words Le Douche, tres déclassé.
Back to the matter at hand, Le Douche has just completely pissed me off. I have three options now: 1) ask him if he’s still battling that case of gonorrhea (loud enough so that his Stepford wife friend can hear), 2) Walk up to him and go Shanaynay on his ass, or 3) sniper him (metaphorically speaking of course…). Options one and two are highly appealing but I generally try to avoid making scenes when possible and, besides, that gonorrhea comment could call me into question. Ew. Not worth it. So I opt for the calm, quiet, jab to the nads approach instead (aka sniper).
Pepe, realizing that he’s basically busted, eventually approaches me and has the nerve to act like he’s not doing anything wrong!
Pepe: Oh allo Bridgette! Didn’t see ewe over air. Ow ave ewe been?
Me: [smiling politely through clenched teeth] Doing well Pepe…doing verryyy well.
Pepe: [leaning towards me so nobody else can here] I am sorry I deed not call I taught – how you say – ewe wanted to spend zee time weeth your friends.
Me: [leaning towards him to whisper back] That’s okay. I completely understand. I’m also completely sure that your penis is dwarfed in size by the average cocktail weenie…
Okay, okay I didn’t actually say that but I soooooooooo wish that I had!
Pepe: Blah blah blah, French douche, yadda yadda yadda…
Me: [leaning towards him to whisper back] You’re an asshole. Stay away from me. Stay away from my friends. I don’t need people like you in my life. [Leaning away and louder now] So good to see you though! Have a great night.
Pepe then disappeared into the night, tail between his legs and Stepford wife trailing not too far behind. See, the thing about these machismo, womanizing types is that they’re really kinda pansies. No clue how to deal with conflict. I swear to you when I say that, after that evening, Pepe completely dropped off of the radar, which is quite difficult to do in such a small town. I even caught him hiding from me once, ducking down in the passenger seat of a car, because he saw me standing on the sidewalk...what a tool.
Months pass by and I had almost forgot about the incident until Pepe decides to come out of the closet…or hiding…whatever. I run into him (you’ll never guess where!) at the local bar. It had been so long since we’d seen each other that I nearly didn’t recognize him until I heard him speak.
Pepe: Allo I am Pepe. Ave ewe ever considaired modeling?
Me: I know who you are. Go away.
Pepe: What do ewe mean? Oh Bridgette? Eez dat ewe? Ow ave ewe been? Deed ewe change your hairs?
Me: [blank stare]
Pepe: Leesten, I am so so sorry for what appened over zee summair. I really regret messing sings up with ewe because I really taught ewe were a great girl and I really wanted to get to know ewe bettair…
Me: I’m sure you did Pepe.
Pepe: I am really really sorray. Can ewe please forgave me?
Now I’m just annoyed and frustrated because how can you be a bitch to someone who’s begging for your forgiveness? I’m a sucker.
Me: Alright Pepe, I think it’s very mature of you to apologize. We’re cool. Don’t worry about it.
End of conversation, right? Wrong.
Pepe: Why aven’t ewe ever modeled? Ewe are sooo bootiful. Would ewe like – how you say – to go out a sometime? Weeth moi?
One glimmer of hope and then…that… C’est la vie!