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This is true: I know because this is how I speak french. People are routinely astonished when I open my mouth and out pours the speech of a cheap hooker. (For what it’s worth, I suppose this means that I don’t look like a cheap hooker.)

——Start of Forwarded Message ———
From: jfa <___ @videotron.ca>
Subject: Dictionnaire Anglais-Quebecois

Anglais – Quebecois
[note to my anglo friends: the french side must be pronounced with the french pronounciation. As an example, “don” pronounces without closing the final ‘n’ and the french A is open as in ‘ah.’ But surely you know all about that. he he :-) ]

Well there you go. – Ben coudon.
I don’t believe it. – Ben wéyon don.
What’s new. – Pis.
Check that out. – Gar.
Look at her. – Gar la.
Look at him. – Gar lé.
What? – Kossé.
What? – Hein.
Do you believe me. – Tume crétu.
Do you think I care. – Quesse tuveux ksam fasse.
Only – Yinque.
With that. – Aickssa.
Really wet. – Trempalavet.
Me and You. – Moé Toé.
I’m gonna yell at him. – J’ma y parler dans’l’casse.
I’m gonna beat him up. – J’ma yarranger l’cadran.
You’re kidding me. – Vatendon.
It stinks. – Sassen chorogne.
I was scared. – Jéu n chienne.
Get out of there. – Aute toé dela.
What are you doing. – Kesse tufai.
I’m spaced out. – Chudanlune.
Right there. – Drette la.
Don’t go out of your way. – Bawd tazempa.
Let’s say. – Meton.
Can you believe it? -Tatu d’javusa.
Move your ass. – Anweille.
It looks that way. – Sadlairasah.
I tell you. – Chtedi.
I am so confused. – Chtout fourré.
I am so tired. – J’coigne des clou.
Look at that guy. – Chek moilédon.
Get lost. – Dégosse.
A fat whore. – Grosse torche.
A lot of trouble. – Un siau’d’marde.
It’s because. – Stacose.
Anyways. – Antéka.
That’s enough. – Sta cé.
See you later. – Woère talleur.
Relax. – Cammtoué.
Damn. – Viarge.
She’s crying. – A braille.
Make believe. – Fairacraire.
He has bad breath. – Y pudanyeul.

[originally transmitted by e-mail November 22, 2002]

But I have two co-workers who have the most irritating laughs. One of them is two desks over and is always on the phone, giggling. The worst part is my own reaction: I’m irritated partly because he sounds effeminate, or out of touch with his masculinity, or maybe just plain out of touch with his body. And I think I shouldn’t react this way, but I do. (He’s straight, straight-looking, straight-acting; but I am morally convinced that his laugh would be just as irritating if he were a flaming queen.) And he’s of South Asian descent, so I worry about those awful stereotypes of South Asian men and their ridiculous attempts at masculinity. Every time I hear his helpless giggle – about every five minutes – I shudder. For both of us. I keep hoping that I’ll get used to it, but I haven’t yet and he’s been here since at least July.

The other guy is just not very bright and has a direct line between his brain and his mouth. There is absolutely no censorship or editing or attempt to be comprehensible: if something resembling a thought has twitched somewhere in the depths of his mind, a running commentary is generated in real time – whether or not there is anyone around to listen. And he sniggers at everything he says. Fortunately someone has moved to the desk next to him so he has someone to talk to now: he used to hang around us a lot and talk – or whatever – to us. So now even when he comes around and does his thing, I know he’s going away again and it doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it used to.

Just thought I’d get that off my chest.

[originally transmitted November 13, 2002]

I got back from my little jaunt across the pond Saturday night and was reunited with my precious doggies Sunday morning.

Poor little Pepe had lost weight – his ribs were not just palpable, but sharp. I put this down to the babysitter feeding them meals instead of leaving food out for them to nibble on all the time, which is understandable as she had several other dogs in the house as well. Anyway, I wasn’t worried.

Then Tuesday he started vomiting. Dogs vomit; I didn’t particularly worry about that either, even when he vomited in my bed. Wednesday I came back from work to find vomit everywhere. In and around the bed and all through the kitchen. Now I was worried. There was no food in the vomit, just gastric juices. Was he eating? Maybe he had an abcessed tooth and couldn’t eat… though when I got home from work he did his usual happy circle dance and then ate from excitement. Maybe he had an intestinal obstruction.

I decided to feed him soft food as a test: if it was a tooth, all would be fine. If his appetite was gone, he wouldn’t eat. If his intestines were blocked he’d just bring it right up again. Each dog got half a can of tuna; both were very enthusiastic; both kept it down.

This morning I woke up with tuna-vomit all through the bed. (The washing machine is running as I write this.) I called the vet from work and made an appointment. I just got back.

Diagnosis, after weighing him, taking his temperature, examining his teeth and gums and other mucous membanes, looking in his ears, listening to his lungs and heart and gut and palpating his belly: heartache. He’s very attached to me and the stress of separation caused increased stomach acidity which resulted in vomiting. Apparently waiting until he got home to have an anxiety crisis is typical. I tend to believe her, because she knew as soon as I brought in a sick dog after a two-week vacation that the problem was vomiting gastric juices.

Why couldn’t heartache take a more picturesque form than tuna-vomit in my bed?

[originally transmitted by e-mail November 7 2002]