There is a new French bistro in town, which I have been dying to try. It actually opened six months ago, but that is how long it takes to set up a date after you have kids.
I starved myself for a week to fit into a sexy dress, hiked up the twins and dug out the lipstick. I was ready for a D-A-T-E.
Giddy on freedom, I gulped down Champagne Cocktails as we waited for our table. After a few I really had to pee and wobbled (out of practice) on my stilettos (over a heating grate!) over to the bathrooms.
On one door was a sketch of "une Vache." Upon the other was "un Poulet."
The champagne, on my week-without-food stomach, was spinning around my head leaving little power left to figure out wether I was a COW or a CHICKEN.
The cow had a full udder, as did I, so that was appropriate. But the chicken was not a rooster, hence a baby bearing creature...my weak bladder from having a baby was proof that Door Number 2 could also work.
I could feel the eyes of the kitchen staff on me.
It finally came down to this: if someone were to see me trying on bathing suits at Target, would I be more offended if they called me a "cow" or a "chicken."
Je suis un poulet et l'aimant.