Parlez vous Francais?  Non?  Me, neither.  And that’s pretty pathetic considering I took 2 years of the foreign language in high school and 2 more in college.   You don’t have to be a math major to know 2 plus 2 equals 4.  And to study a subject that many years and remember nothing is um… weird.  It’s weird I don’t remember a word of vocabulary.  It’s weird I don’t remember how to conjugate  verbs.  And It’s weird I can’t even remember a single french phrases. 

You:  “Whatever.”

(I literally hear you interrupting me in my mind while I’m writing, so I just want you to know I’m going to have a little conversation with you right here, right now.  And I totally know we didn’t talk in real life.)

(I think.)

Me:  “What do you mean, ‘whatever?’ “

You:  “You so know a few french words.  I mean, you at least know one french phrase.  You wrote ‘do you speak French,’ in French, at the beginning of the blog.”

Me:  “Oh, that.  I looked it up on Wikipedia and copied it into the post.”

You:  “That’s weird.”

Me:  “Totally.”

I don’t remember much about the middle aged woman who taught the high school subject, either.  Who spends an hour a day, every day for 2 years with someone and can’t even remember her name?  Me, that’s who.  But I do remember one thing:  I did not like her.  Not one little bit.  And she didn’t like me. 

I hated French class and Madame I Can’t Remember Her Name knew it.  I would sit in my seat and chew gum and she would tell me to spit it out.  She would ask me to conjugate a verb and I would say no, thank you very much.  She would roll her eyes and I would roll mine.  Madame I Can’t Remember Her Name was really annoyed and so was I.  But, c’mon.  I was a 13 or 14 year old hormonal kid.  What was her excuse?  I have not thought about Madame I Can’t Remember Her Name since the day I skipped out of her classroom for the last time nearly 2 decades ago.  That is, until last night. 

I guess the pepperoni and hamburger, cheese stuffed crust pizza we ordered from Pizza Hut really did a number on me because I had the most bizzare dream about Madame I Can’t Remember Her Name.  It went a little like this:  I was in France and I started to panic a bit because I didn’t know the language.  And you’ll never guess who stopped on the street to help – Madame I Can’t Remember Her Name.  

Here’s the part of the dream that gets a little gummy and blurry and doesn’t make a lick of sense whatsoever, so please indulge.  Over the course of the dream, Madame I Can’t Remember Her Name and I became really, really, really good friends.  She was funny and clever.  She showed me where to eat and how to order.  She even had a sense of humor and we laughed and laughed and laughed.

But then I woke up.  And thought that was weird.  Really weird. 

But perhaps not nearly as weird as me sharing this really weird dream with you.

Sorry about that.