False Friends

There are quite a few “false friends” between the French and English language.

One of the most shockingly false is the word “deception.” It does not actually mean to be deceived; it means to suffer a disappointment, and this simple twist can cause a great deal of misconstruction.

Another false friend is “eventual.” In English it means sort of a sure thing, but at some point in the future. In French it means “something that might arise … possibly.”

So ladies, if you have asked your Frenchman the unhappy question, “Are you ever going to marry me?” (unfortunate because one would hope that he’d be the one popping the question and not you) and his answer is “eventuellement” then run for the hills! He’s only saying “perhaps,” and we all know what that means in the International Language of Men.

Yet another false friend is “occasion.” In English it means an event. If you say it in a certain tone it means a really noteworthy, dress-to-the-nines, I’m getting spoiled kind of event. In French it means “secondhand.”  So if your French paramour proposes to eventually take you to something that’s going to be an occasion, then just shoot back that if he thinks you’re really that easy, he’s going to be in for a big deception.

I have had a deception today. I got rejected from the patisserie school that I had applied to and interviewed for. To be honest, as much as I love to bake, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure that spending my days around butter and sugar was the best thing for my waistline, or that I would love to do it as much when forced to at 7am every day.  But I wanted to do something in Paris, that didn’t involve kids.

I wanted to learn an ancient French art.

The sting of rejection hurts.  I’m used to getting the things I go after, which is somewhat surprising for one who has struggled as much with self esteem as I have.  I think I relied on my talents in the past to give me my sense of self worth, although with maturity comes wisdom and acceptance (fortunately).

Of course I already know what I’m going to do next. I worked that out instead of allowing myself to dwell on all those uncomfortable emotions of self-doubt, etc, like any good Type A person should.  I’m going to keep teaching English, for one. It’s a little extra income for not that much effort (and it forces me to clean my house at least three times a week since classes are held here).

I’m going to keep writing my fantasy novel. I’m going to see if I can find a cooking or baking class in Paris that meets just once a week instead of every day, and costs in the hundreds instead of the thousands. And I’ll keep baking for the people I love.

Still, the sting of rejection hurts. Fortunately I have some true friends.

This guy for one.

Barring that, there are these ones, at least for the next fifteen years or so until they start therapy to work out their dysfunctional childhood scarring.  (Kidding, I hope).

This one in particular still needs me. Whew! I love it.

And I have my roses. They smell really nice, even if they prick.  But hey – beggars for friends can’t be choosers.

Barring that there are all the wonderful French moms that I meet at school with their impenetrable personalities for some “true friend” possibilities.

I’ll get to them – eventuellement, I’m sure.

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