French women don’t like me. Nor do French- Canadians. Seriously, I’m not making it up. We went to the park yesterday. It was much too beautiful a day to be wasted indoors. The girls love to swing more than anything else, so that’s where an entire hour of our time was spent. Occupying the swing between The Bella and Goobie was a small girl being pushed by her mother, a blonde about my height and fifty pounds lighter [READ: skinny bitch] who spoke to her in French. I listened intently because I have an obsession with foreign languages as spoken by the natives. It was beautiful, except for those words that called for a decent amount of spit to be gathered in the back of the throat- when she spoke those the wind seemed to be determined to make sure her saliva ended up in my eyes.
They left to run around the rest of the play- ground and eventually she returned carrying her daughter on her hip and followed by another blonde skinny bitch woman and another small child. As they began to push their daughters beside where I still pushed Goobie they started to have a very animated conversation in French. I decided to push Goobie from the front to avoid the impending double spit attack.
Now I don’t know what they were saying but I know it was about me. I just know it. I mean I swear I could see them blowing their cheeks out and stomping around to imitate my substantial girth and point and giggling at me out of the corner of my eye. No, I’m not being paranoid – they did! I just can’t prove it is all…
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