Nine years ago, Anna and I accidentally invented a holiday while sitting in the front window at Gritty’s. This was back before Gritty’s was McGritty’s and you had to have a flipped collar or less than 20% of your body covered in clothing.
We were watching people file past the window, all bundled up and freezing and miserable. It was sub-zero outside and warm and cozy by the window, but the window had only a little tiny bit of it that was not fogged and or frozen. It was a miserable day, like most days in February in Maine.
“I can’t wait for French Whore Season”, I said to Anna.
She stared at me for a minute, and tried to decipher what I had said. Anna and I are notorious for mishearing each other.
“French Whore Season?” she said.
“What? TOURIST SEASON! I can’t wait for tourist season!”
So of course a holiday was born. Next Friday will be our ninth year of celebrating French Whore Season. Last year we had about 70 people come, some all the way from Seattle, some from New York, and a whole lot from here in Maine. This year, pretty much everyone we knew in college will be showing up, and Livia, my liver, is already scared.
What started as Anna and I wearing sparkly shirts and maybe some red lipstick has turned into a corset-laden booze fest. Look! We have a poster! All year people have been asking me, “When is French Whore Season????” Rest easy folks. It has arrived. Five more days!
