French Fried

I am morally opposed to meetings. Even someone as apolitical as I am has to take a stand every once in a while.

The meeting I attended at the high school last night, which was assembled to help prepare parents for their children's upcoming three week trip to France, did not disappoint. I went under protest, telling my daughter I could not for the life of me understand what I needed to know that could not be conveyed to me in a group email. And I am already prepared, have been counting the days for months in anticipation of the wild three week orgy I will be hosting. She looked at me with disgust (gee, that's new). "You're going because I'm your child and you care about me," she explained. We scowled at each other.

Normally very punctual, I was the last one to arrive when I strolled in at two minutes past the appointed time. There was one empty seat, at a desk for two in the back. I tried to be inconspicuous as I slid into the chair next to the intense gentleman who was already scribbling notes vigorously onto a legal pad. As far as I could tell, I had not missed anything; the two French teachers were silently distributing the first of a stack of handouts, withholding the rest, I assume, until we reached each item on the agenda emblazoned on the white board. Clever; I would be imprisoned until the bitter end. As she handed me my first sheet, Robin (a wonderful teacher, by the way, marveilleuse) asked me if I brought the forms with me. Forms? I vaguely remembered my husband emailing me and saying he would take care of the forms. Vaguely, but clearly enough that I could blame my negligence on an email misfire resulting from my divorce. Luckily, Robin taught my older daughter for four years back in the day, and figured the forms would arrive some time before take off. The guy next to me wasn't as forgiving; he glanced up from his scribbling long enough to give me a look of complete and utter disdain. I smiled. I thought about asking him if he wanted to grab a coffee afterward.

At the outset, things weren't looking too bad. Item one of seven on the white board was dispensed with quickly, and we moved into item (and handout) number two. Telephone numbers -- for the American teachers, for the French teachers, for the hotel in Paris where the group would end up after a two week home stay in a small town. Hmm, the small town my older daughter had gone to had been a red colored blob in the upper right hand corner of the map of France hanging in front of the room; my youngest appeared to be going to an orange colored blob in the lower middle. Who knew? Plus ca change! It even had a different name. At least I had a new subject for my upcoming wee-hours-of-the-morning geography lesson.

I was more than ready for item number three, but the other parents started firing off questions in earnest. "What's the country code for France?" How about the same numbers that seem to precede each French phone number? (I hope I wasn't offering up my answers out loud.) "What's the time difference?" Have you not heard of Google? "What will the weather be like?" It's summer, idiot. In the northern hemisphere. Jeez. "Will the kids shower every day?" That was just downright disturbing. "Does everybody in France speak English?" I'd take a refresher course in Urdu, just in case. Whatever you do, don't count on having to communicate with them in FRENCH.

OMG. I actually kept muttering "Oh my god" to myself. Thankfully, a couple of friends had decided to text me while I sat in this very important meeting, giving me something else to focus on. "Oh my god," I moaned with each new stupid question, as my thumb punched away furiously at the little keys. The scribbler gave me occasional looks. He probably thought I was sexting.

I began to think I had missed something, that we parents had to prepare for this trip because we were actually going on it. How else to explain the minutiae, the details about each day's itinerary, the departure times each morning, the approximate duration of each bus ride? Mon dieu! I might have some serious shopping to do, not to mention some serious dieting so I wouldn't feel self-conscious around all those skinny little French women. "How many Euros should I send with Johnny?" Robin was even looking annoyed. "It's tough to say." "But approximately, what do you think." "It's really an individual decision." "Ballpark. How much?" I would not have blamed Robin for pulling the map off the wall, rolling it up, and beating this woman over the head with it. Mon dieu indeed.

It took a good half hour to get through the twenty-two items on the handout for item number seven (sneaky), a handout I was able to read and digest in about two minutes. While texting. While trading scowls with my desk mate. I was glad we got clarification about bringing liquids through airline security; no, Homeland Security rules will not be suspended for our high school French trip. Shocking.The only interesting tidbit I picked up that I would not have learned from reading the the handouts (because it was in the "boy" packing section) was that boys would not be allowed in the community swimming pool unless they wore a Speedo. Oh, gross. I'd have to warn my daughter to avert her gaze.

My guess is that after this meeting, some parents might back their kids out. French families offer their kids wine with dinner! French people -- teenagers included -- smoke. And, OMFD (oh mon fucking dieu) they go to clubs in the evening, and they will be taking our little darlings with them.

Ooh la la. OMFD!