Okies and Frenchies, or Oil and Vinegar

I have always been an unabashed Francophile.  My mother's first language was French; she was born in Rhode Island, but both her parents were French Canadian, from large French families.  I took French in high school and college, have been to France several times, honeymooned in Arles, named my daughters very Frenchy names.  In fact, I wish I could BE more French:  more aloof, chic, able to smoke Gauloises, take lovers nonchalantly, make odd gypsy ensembles look sexy, and tie a dang scarf. 

Alas, it's hard to be any of those things ministering to a pile of kids in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  Instead I just drool over the lives of the Courtins-Clarins heiresses and Carla Bruni-Sarkozy in Vogue, and imagine living on the Left Bank, dropping off my two kids at the state-supported nursery, and dashing off for a bit of Vouvray and mussels with my luvvrrrrrrr, Vincent.

The Courtin-Clarins Sisters Being French



But there ain't a lot of Frenchy descendants here in Oklahoma.  This of course should come as no surprise, the French being not so much of the hardy, pioneering stock but more of the let's-head-to-the-hot-tub-with-some-Veuve-Cliquot stock.  So anything remotely French here is met with a confused look.  Take, for example, my email:  chezjill.  Chez means "at the place of" in French, so I thought it was rather clever.  But my GAWD I wish I had never used that as my email because everyone thinks I am a total retard to have such a weird, nonsensical email address that I have to spell letter by letter everytime I give it.  And:  my daughters' names.  Very few people have heard the name Colette, and thus pronounce it "KAWL-ette" with a Dallas Drawl, instead of "kuh-LETTE."  Yes, even her dear grandfather butchers her name like this.  Dear Okies!  Surely OU offered a useless class on French Poets?  Didn't any of you read Colette's erotica for cheap thrills under the auspices of high-brow LIT-RA-CHUR?



The Writer Colette with Her Cats



And no one can spell her name, either.  Everyone spells her name with TWO Ls, COLLETTE.  Even her preschool teachers don't get it right.  Last year, I let the two L's go, since, hey, she was two.  But this year on the first day of school I corrected her teacher, since Colette was starting to read letters and recognize her name.  And by GAWD I want everyone to know that she is named for the kinky French poet and not some weirdo DOUBLE L Collette!

So I thought the teacher got it.  But then today Colette brought this handiwork home: 

It's ONE L, people!

Oh, there's more.  In my Hip Mom column, I recommended a book, a cutesy tongue-in-cheek look at the Frenchies written by a Brit girl.  The book describes how the French are a bit, um, casual in their bed sharing arrangements.  It shocks me that people actually read my drivel, so I was a bit taken aback when a friend approached me:  she was just HORRIFIED that the French were so...promiscuous!  In fact, I think she thought I was actually RECOMMENDING that she go out and find an afternoon dalliance.  Holy cripes!  No!  After all, the Frenchies' reputation as sluts-a-go-go is probably greatly exaggerated for most of the populace.  Perhaps too, their views hint at a vestige of Catholicism - illicit sex is just another sin, no better or worse than pride, greed, envy, or eating too many pommes frites.  Just note that tryst on the confession list and move on!  

But sheesh, I hope no one looking to me as a moral arbiter.  It's hard enough forcing myself to behave for my OWN children.

Merde.