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Parlez-Vous Francais?
 

Some of the best things I took home from France were not even tangible. They were, and continue to be, the giggles. Perhaps it is because I never wear a dress. Taking me anywhere remotely fancy is at your own risk… I  am either going to klutz over a crack in the sidewalk, or bust up laughing over something dumb like smelling a candle and burning my nose hairs.
 
Ahh… you look handsome. My cousin Pascale tells me to look in ze mirrror. She has just finished doing my make-up with rouge that strippers paint onto their nipples. Ze colorize them. Colorize? Yeah, you know, to make zem pink.
 
No I don’t know, but French women are beautiful so I am game for trying ze ztuff on my cheeks. Pascale points to ze baztub. Tells me to  zet down. She has a needle between her lips with a long string attached to it so I quickly plop. She is zewing my brazierre to my blouze so zat my top stay in place. Yeah?
 
With Pascale on her knees between my thighs, I tell her about the rain in the Spain but she has no idea what I am saying. Ze rain in Zpain? Whatch you mean? It’s no rain here tonight… we go to St. Tropez not Zpain…
 
Yeah, well, it might as well have been Spain. Because Pascale’s talented eye for turning even dorks like me into Cinderella’s, was something I brought back to Texas with me. As Pascale would say, I went from being a “duck to a swamp.”  Ze zay zat in America? Yeah? No. Ze zay from a duck to a swan. Thanks, cousin. I zwim away now.