A French (even more meticulous) Bree

There's this woman whose children have been going to the same schools as mine for over ten years now. She has a knack of making me feel like a deshevled, fat cow with no taste every time I see her. And, of course, blonde woman that I am, I always seem to say or do something extremely stupid in her presence. The worst part is she remains overwhelmingly nice to me in spite of my awkwardness.

Our daughters were very good friends for a long time in kindergarten, and they did the sleepover thing for a couple of years. One time her daughter came just after Halloween which wasn't yet celebrated in France. I had been invited into the classroom, however, to do a demonstration of a pumpkin carving and talk about how we celebrated the holiday in the States. The pumpkin had come back to our house and I'd left it out by the front door the night her daughter arrived. The following morning, the pumpkin was gone and when Mme Bree asked me about the pumpkin, I told her I'd had to throw it out because it had begun to rot. For reasons seemingly beyond my control, I went on and on about this. I don't quite remember what I said, but I do know that I got pretty specific about how the pumpkin had fallen apart when I'd tried to lift it off the platter and into the garbage, and I believe I'd gone on to evoke specific odours that accompanied this ritual. I suppose that I was filling up the silence with whatever I could come up with. But then I went on to tell her that we'd all eaten homemade pumpkin soup for dinner (all of us, including her daughter of course). Realizing what I'd just done, I quickly explained that it hadn't been made with the rotten pumpkin, but it was too late. The damage was done. She quickly replaced the disgust on her face with one of her charming smiles, but I knew she continued to believe her daughter had been fed rotten pumpkin soup and she was worrying about the consequences this would have on her health. Anyway, this is the type of gaffe I tend to always make in front of her.

I hadn't seen her in over a year since our daughters have gone off to different high schools. But yesterday, a Wednesday, I did my grocery shopping in town. I was having a bad hair day and a red face day. I had also had to change at the last minute because my dog had ripped my dress so I'd thrown on a tee shirt I never wear because it's bright coral and makes my face even redder. Needless to say, I was feeling rather ugly. So there I am, my shopping cart overflowing with stuff, and Mme Bree shows up with her little woven basket over her arm, dressed in a finely tailored suit, looking tan and radiant. Her hair was perfect and I almost wanted to ask her what shampoo she used to keep her hair from going brittle despite the coloring, but I'm getting better now about making such remarks.

This said, I had to lay all my goods out on the counter while she checked out and cheerfully chatted to me. I noticed her eyes catch a glimpse of the coupons in my fist and the bag-in-the-box rosé wine, the chocolate bars, the Old El Paso taco dinners...and I remembered how one day I had just spurted it all out to her and said something insane like "I don't know how some women manage to do it all. I just can't keep up with it. I can't be perfect all the time." I even remember crying in front of her while I said this. I wonder if she understood that those "some people" were only people like her, and in fact, she is the only person I know who can live up to that standard. And then I remembered what my husband said when we talked about her perfect-ness one time: people who look that great on the outside probably wear dirty underwear.