What an awful idea it is to tell folks who wake up at 6 am to wake up at 5 am. I feel like I’ve been hit with a Little Debbie Snack Cake truck and didn’t even get to eat any of the wreckage.
My kids are zombies, and my hair smacked me upside the head and told me it was going back to sleep. And it did.
Now I’m sitting here looking at a honey mustard packet and the sun coming over the horizon, and I’m thinking that it’s exciting to be on a weight loss plan where the losses are fairly consistent. I woke up this morning and stepped on the scale.
I’m down 5 more pounds for the week.
But still. Scales. Do you ever want to throttle yours? Mine laughs, mockingly, at me with a French accent, and it gives me 2-3 different readings per weigh in. I always take the highest from the night before in that case. I hate getting my hopes plastered to the ceiling only to have it fall on my head. I always thought a digital scale was going to be some fun.
You press on the scale and step back. Once the digits “zero” out, you have a window of time to replace yourself there again, and you have to be precise. If you step on the thing too early it yells, “No! Get off of me! I wasn’t ready!” I look at the scale. It takes a deep breath and braces itself. “OKOKOK. Try me now.” It grunts noticeably, but it keeps comments to itself, muttering in a dialect.
Now I took French in high school for four years. I always planned to visit a French-speaking area of the world someday. I enrolled in a community college and continued to study French for two more years parce que j’adore la langue Francaise.
I had precisely two victories having had taken that much French.
1. French insults are amazingly cool. Telling people to go to hell in French sounds exquisite. Plus, you could call people’s parents stuff like goat lickers to make them mad. Apparently, animal names are big insults in French. Considering what people tend to call people’s own parents in English, let alone other people’s folks, there was never any end to the French ‘dozens’ so long as you knew the names of enough farm animals in France.
2. I could tell what the shrieking French neighbor was yelling at her son: “Etienne! Do not eat the sand!”
There are some, within the country of France– some academia, mostly– who feel the French language is being fouled by the languages of others, and who want to take the language back to a pure French tongue. Frankly, I hope they don’t do it. Such an attitude of intellectual and linguistic snobbery might elicit a similar backlash from other nations.
And, frankly, I don’t know what else I’d call Yoplait or Grey Poupon.