We went to a Parler-something-or-other event last night. We met a number of interesting characters one whom we’ll call Sally in case we ever become fast friends and she starts reading my blog…Oh, who are we kidding? Her real name is Sally. If we ever become fast friends I’ll change MY name.
Sally sits down at our carefully chosen “corner of the room–back off-table” and starts to tell us how bad her drink is. The poor waitress who is a few pounds overweight has been trudging up and down the stairs to take care of our ‘up the stairs’ group. Sally doesn’t like her drink. Could she have some ice? (no attempt on Sally’s part to speak un petit peu de French to the poor lady). The lady brings ice. Sally leaves to harass another table and spills her ice, busts the glass, cuts her hand, begins to bleed and has the poor waitress running around again this time for napkins.
Sally, with her napkin wrapped hand, returns to our table. Apparently, The Husband and I are riveting. We say we’re from Oklahoma. Sally’s a social worker from Seattle. You do the math. She says, “I don’t care much for Oklahoma.”
I want to grab her by the throat. Doesn’t she know without Oklahoma she would not have the “I Wanna Hippopotamus for Christmas” song? Who doesn’t love that song? I’ll tell you who.
A few years ago when I worked for the OKC Chamber of Commerce, my gal Cyn decided around August one year that it would be a fabulous idea to have the Hippo song featured in our annual Christmas card. Yes! Yes! We all cheered. Go with it!
So in late November the management staff all gathered for one of our endless half-day Friday meetings (I know, endless and half-day are cross terms so if I have to pick, let’s go with endless, interminable, a thing that does not end). Miss Cyn trucks in the Christmas cards we each would have to hand-sign before the warden would bring the keys and release us.
The thing I’ve left out here, and it’s fairly critical, is they were the singing kind of cards. The entire meeting, all nine department chiefs were signing the Hippo cards and the I WANNA HIPPOPOTAMUS FOR CHRISTMAS song was bellowing out from nine various points of the song. I started secretly singing in my head: “I wanna blow out my f*cking brains ‘fore Christmas” (using the poetic ‘fore so as not to throw off the iambic pentameter). Sorry, I digress.
Sally had just said she doesn’t care much for Oklahoma and I’m about to grab her by the neck but then she redeems herself,
“Don’t even get me started on Indiana. I hate Indiana”.
Meantime, the event organizer, also American, is touting about all the Americans who are moving to Paris since the Trump election. Seems these Americans Expats just can’t stand the intolerance in the U.S. anymore.
There sits Sally with her bandaged hand, barking orders at the French waitress, severely disliking Okies and having a zero-tolerance policy for Indianians (who knew?). Sally is one of those Expats who just moved to Paris. In case you’re keeping score that’s USA 1, France 0.
I leave you with pics of our romantic Sally-free walk home. The Seine banks, by the way, are now and newly CAR FREE!