One Badass Bird.

I got fired. Say it in the “I got worms” Dumb & Dumber voice – sounds funny, right? Say it in the “hey Dad, remember that large mortgage I have to pay every month? Well …” voice – decidedly less funny.

But dude, I TOTALLY got fired!!! WTF?? I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised … after all, I worked for French people. Fucking French people. I am so bitter now. Like, can I still enjoy Ratatouille? I love that movie but his little rat French accent is going to make me enraged. Although there is this great line where one of the characters says “Well, we hate to be rude, but, we’re French” AHAHAHA ok phew, Ratatouille is ok. Or Bistro de Coin, that awesome … um … bistro (duh) on Connecticut Ave where they have yummy moules & frites (sorry, freedom mussels and freedom fries) – I can’t give them up so I’ll just go and be really rude to the servers. Oh wait … they’re French, they won’t even notice! SHIT!

I suppose I should have known this would have ended in disaster the second I got the voicemail from my newly former employer. I could not understand a god damn word he said – he was literally the Frenchiest Frenchman in Frenchville. And a chef, at that. The message was just all “French Frenchy Eiffel Tower mon dieu sacre bleu champagne beret Moulin Rouge merde.” Now, for those of you who know me (do you know me? You have no idea do you? Insert evil laugh here …) you know I’ve worked for a French chef before. A man I THOUGHT was the Frenchest man in DC. And he was crazy, and demanding, and chubby, and short, and ALWAYS wore a scarf REGARDLESS of the temperature and generally had that affected French attitude of “hmm, your non-Frenchness amuses me but, sadly, it also bores me. BE GONE! And bring me a glass of red wine.” So when I found out that my first French boss was trained by this new French boss I should have RUN FOR THE HILLS. But no, I thought “I survived French chef #1 for four years and actually managed to become somewhat friends with him, I can do this again.”

I could not. And it took only 2 short months to figure it out. I’ll spare you the dirty details of the firing and skip to the positives. For one thing, my parents feel really badly for me. I didn’t do anything wrong (I didn’t!) so they’ve generously decided to float me for a bit while I temp and look for a new job (with NO FRENCH PEOPLE). I am sure they are looking at each other like “both daughters, out of work, being supported by us?” but hopefully they just shrug their shoulders and go back to antiquing or whatever they do all day instead of feeling like failures as parents and role models.

For another thing, people are totally cool about buying me stuff! It’s not like I quit my job (which I have a tendency to do, and then to go on really extravagant vacations like St Thomas or Disneyworld), I didn’t do this on purpose (not this time) so beers are being bought for me, dinners, etc. Which I appreciate immensely btw, to any friends reading – THANKS!

Thirdly, event the smallest amount of initiative taken on my part is greeted with some serious kudos – “You applied for a job as an assistant manager at Giant Bakery? GOOD FOR YOU!” When people have low expectations, you always exceed them. Ergo you always ROCK HARD CORE.

But I think my most favoritest positive outcome of this whole debacle is that I can officially, now and forever, talk shit about the French. I totally can. Bring it. How many French people have you worked for? Oh really? Not two? And you weren’t fired by one and generally abused by both? HAH! I am an EXPERT on the suckiness of the French. Now now people, lets simmer down, I like French food & wine, and I do appreciate the culture etc that these frog-like surrender monkeys have given us – hahaha see? See what I just did there?? I turned a compliment into an insult! Manger, my baguette-eating bicycle riding friends, and bon apetite.

I think I am going to be French for Halloween. I am going to wear thigh-high striped socks, Chuck Taylor’s, a black ballerina skirt, a maroon short-sleeved t-shirt with a white long-sleeved shirt underneath, a checkered scarf, have unwashed, un-brushed hair pulled into some faux-trendy ponytail, bangs, and a big slouchy bag. And I am going to smoke cigarettes and look incredibly bored by all of humanity/like I just smelled something funny (I did, it was myself, I’m French). And then I am going to be really nice to people, thereby ruining the reputation of general assholeness that they’ve worked so hard for: “No no, mon cheri, it is ok – call the sparkling white wine from New Jersey champagne, I know we always get our striped boat-neck shirts in a knot about that but we’ve decided to relax;” “I agree mon ami, Italy is a better version of France, let us work to move the Eiffel Tower to Rome;” “C’est vrai, it is totally bizarre we eat snails – we like to say its because our access to food was severely limited during the Nazi occupation but, come on, really, whose fault was that?”

Ah yes, what a wonderful benefit. Sure I didn’t get severance pay, won’t get commission for the events I booked, and had to tell all my friends and family I got FIRED (so humiliating) but at least I can then add “by a crazy fucking French asshole – and I oughta know.”