saignant

saignant
The high school French is way rusty after forty years.

Definition of saignant:
“saignant, (french) /sɛɲɑ̃/, /ɑ̃t/ adjective (after the verb, saigner, to bleed)

1. [meat] rare; bloody

2. figurative (familiar) [criticism] savage.” (wordreference.com).

Where I ran across it:
11/21/08 NYT movie review of “Twilight”, “The Love That Dare Not Bare Its Fangs,” by Manohla Dargis.

“…If Ms. Meyer has made the vampire story safe for her readers (and their parents) — the sole real menace comes from a half-baked subplot involving some swaggering vampires who like their steak saignant and human — it’s only because she suggests that there actually is something worse than death, especially for teenagers: sex.…”

My two cents:
I’ve heard all the Twilight hype, but haven’t read the book. Despite the well-written review and the gift of a new word (en francais, no less!), I won’t be going to the movie, either. I just don’t do vampires. Period. Frankly, I resent them, celibate and fangless, or not.

It all goes back, oh, about 50 years - to the seminal horror movie experience that scarred me for life at the tender age of 8. Our teenage babysitter pulled a stealthy movie matinee switcheroo one Saturday afternoon, and instead of the parent-approved Tom Thumb, swore my brother and me to secrecy and sneaked us into the Fox Theater for a matinee horror double-feature: The Return of Dracula, and The Blob. I remember curling up in a sobbing, terrified ball in - and then under - my seat, eyes squinted closed, fingers in ears. Still, I saw and heard too much. After that, I began a nightly bedtime ritual. For years, bless my heart, I laid me down to sleep in wide-eyed, mortal fear, with the light on and the covers pulled tight and high, the small silver cross on the chain around my neck carefully positioned on top of the covers. And oh, the nightmares. Pitiful, I tell you. Just pitiful.

I’m all grown up and I’m over it now. I sleep peacefully, and wear no crosses to bed. I’m just fine, albeit forever changed. I know my limits. I don’t do vampires, (or clowns, by the way), or horror movies of any stripe. But sometimes I do dream of finding that babysitter, shoving her into a seat and forcing her to sit through something really horrific.

Sarah Palin on an endless loop, perhaps.

Oh-h-h you betcha!