There's
a reason why there aren't too many operas in English. English is, for
the most part, an ugly language that has zero lyrical flow. Seriously -
with the exception of a few awesome words (like sobriquet, obsequious
and apoplexy - although actually apoplexy is not exactly a pretty word
but I just like to say it) we're all harsh lines, sharp stops and
staccato syllables. And that is why everything sounds better in French.
Just take the word potato. It's such a dull, hard word in English. Po-Ta-To. But say it in French - pomme de terre - and it sounds downright magical and mystical.
Does anyone remember that classic 80s flick, Gotcha?
Remember the scene where college student Anthony Edwards (with OMG a
full head of hair) tries to pick up Eastern European spy Linda
Fiorentino? I guarantee you if he had said: "My pencil is large and
yellow," she wouldn't have given him a second glance. But "Mon crayon est large et jaune?" Well...I'll just point out that she did in fact accompany him back to his hotel room...
Le Sigh.
Anyways, about a year ago I met The Attorney at a Bar Association luncheon and I chatted him up all through lunch as I am prone to do. He was fascinated by my "city girl transplanted to rural NC" tale and at the end of the meal we exchanged cards. The next day before I could drop a handwritten "so nice to meet you" note in the mail (because I am uber-classy like that), I recieved an email from him. I replied. And then he replied. And thus a massive email correspondence bloomed.
While I tried to keep up the facade of urban, cultured sophisticate who just happened to live in Smalltown USA, eventually some of my deep dark secrets were revealed. For example, my love of NASCAR. The fact that I listened to Country Music. Or that I was, on occasion, apt to consciously use improper grammar. I didn't quite know how to reconcile the posh, professional brunette who was sporting a pink wool belted shift dress with matching tea-length coat and triple-strand pearls at the luncheon with the truck-driving, boot-stomping, hee-hawing girl I occasionally was on the side. Was I redneck? Not really. I mean, I do sometimes go to biker bars, but usually I'm there in designer jeans and heels. I gave my whole incongruous persona some serious thought and that's when it struck me: Everything sounds better in French.
Here's what I finally wrote and sent to The Attorney in an attempt to explain my many facets:
I
moved down to North Carolina a nice Jewish girl raised on the Upper
East Side of Manhattan. I was more Sex in the City than Dukes of
Hazzard. But over time I suppose, I evolved. Or adapted. I am not sure
which. I now find myself listening to country music and pulling for the
#48. I say might could, y'all and fixin' ta. Although I don't care for
grits or sweet tea, I do love me a chicken biscuit from Bojangles every
once and a while. All this, and I still wear Dolce and Gabbana and
carry a Louis Vuitton. In a word, I am a rougeneck.
And thus Rougeneck aka Rougie was born.
Truth be told, I actually think that I am pretty clever to have coined such a genius term
Rougeneck is a pretty fitting moniker because it happily marries my
cosmopolitan upbringing with the Southern Fried Belle I have become
over the last 3-1/2 years in NC.
Et Voila! Now you know where I come from. I hope you'll stick around to see what I do.
Yay! Looks great!