Just like Halloween, except it's not October

Two girls in their early twenties got on the bus tonight. Normally, this wouldn't be something worth blogging about, but the accouterments of these particular young ladies were astonishing.

They didn't look bad in the traditional sense of the word; in fact, they almost pulled the look off. Almost.

Imagine Darth Vader meets ABBA. Times two. They had the ABBA hair and a weird dark and evil thing going on. And they were wearing very short shorts. Except they weren't short shorts. A bit of google research reveals that the proper name for the item of clothing they were wearing (though barely) is "low rise booty shorts." And just for the record, they were low rise VINYL booty shorts. (Now you're all picturing Darth Vader wearing Daisy dukes, aren't you?)

And the strange thing was that one of them had a bottle of dish soap sticking out of her purse. The only thing I can imagine is that they were going to a bring-your-own-bubbles party with an ABBA theme.

I was beginning to wonder if I was the only one on the bus to be somewhat taken aback by their get-ups when an older woman told the Darth Vader twins that she hoped they had some pants somewhere.

"Oh yes," one of them replied, matter-of-factly. "We have them right here in our bag."

The question that I wanted to pose to her at that moment was: "Doesn't having them in your bag prevent the pants from fulfilling their intended purpose?"

Steve is going to be sorry he missed this one.

What comes around goes around

Even before I ever studied abroad, I had a knack for befriending international students. In church youth group in junior high, it was Suzanna from Brazil. In high school, it was Andrea from Switzerland and Tim from England. (I always felt a little sorry for the foreign students who decided to spend a year in the States and then lo and behold, they get plopped smack dab in the middle of Idaho). And there are too many names to mention from college.

But the friend I thought of tonight was Jean-Pierre. I met him at our campus writing center when he came in to get some help with a paper he was writing for one of his MBA courses. Jean-Pierre was (and still is) the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, with startling blue eyes, and a French accent to boot. "Can you help me with zis paper?" he asked.

Sure, just as soon as I can speak proper English again, I thought as I scooped my chin off the table.

But despite my initial infatuation with his Frenchness, I quickly learned that his Frenchness came with a dark side, including a girlfriend. And while he might have been willing to forget about that pesky detail, I was not.

Nevertheless, we became good friends and spent a lot of time together, including dining in the student cafeteria. I remember thinking it very, very odd that the Frenchman sitting at the table with me insisted on eating his French fries with a fork.

"Jean-Pierre," I admonished. "Just because you're French, doesn't mean you know the right way to eat French fries. Anyway, French fries are Belgian. Furthermore, French fries are finger food. That means you eat them with your FINGERS."

"Well, in France we eat pommes frites with a fork," he retorted as he stabbed a fry and took a bite.

I never did convince that Frenchman of the proper way to eat French fries in America.

But tonight I ate humble pie.

Actually, I ate French fries. With a fork.

And to add insult to injury, I didn't order fries. I was at a British pub, so they served me some chips along with that humble pie.

Leftovers

"So what do you want to do with the pad thai from last night? There's not very much left."

"We could have it as an appethaizer."

My boyfriend is oh-so-punny.