Our new FedEx guy at work sounds like the fifth Beatle. “My goodness,” I said to him when we met, “your vowels certainly are long!”
“Loo-ah-ung?” he said.
Because he’s also a comely fellow of many tattoos, I have taken to sexually harrassing him in a way which is only possible with someone with an accent. “When I coomb he-ah, I want you wee-ay-uh-tin’ at the doo-ah-r for me with a cuppa tea anna scone,” he told me.
“Say scone again!” I shrieked like a harpy, transported with excitement. “And take off your shirt!”
Today we talked about how the U.S. is getting worse and worse, with the guns and the mee-ay-nee-acs. “I’d like t’find a smoo-ahll island t’roon off to,” he told me. I suggested England, but apparently that was not what he had in mind.
In other news, you’ll all be interested to hear that the Lad and I have been seriously talking about having a baby. I’ve really been wanting one for the past couple of hours, so we shot a few emails back and forth on the subject. This might have something to do with niece Allegra’s recent charming and drooly visit (she’s a gummer of other peoples’ knuckles, a ridiculously adorable habit which I hope she abandons before she enters the workforce). Or it might be because I’ve been playing Yoshi’s Island nonstop on SNES lately, and taking care of infant Mario is casting a little shadow onto my biological sundial. So far the Lad is holding firm against my lifelong desire for a child of my womb and he says we can’t get a turtle either so I don’t really know why I even stay in this relationship.
I asked the FedEx guy if he wanted to have a baby with me, and I’m pretty sure his answer, hiding behind a forest of vowels, was in the affirmative. So at least I’ve always got that to fall back on.