There is a bonafide frenchman living in my house!
Yes, a MAN from FRANCE, with a FRENCH accent, LIVING in my house.
Its little moments like these that reaffirm my faith in God. There is no way that this is coincedental. Me, the gal who runs around screaming, "Aye speet on ju! ptew ptew!" and "Uuuh luh-luh-luh-la" and "Leetle gurls, leetle gurls, 'ow Aye louve leetle gurls".
Oui! Ce pas! Mas Oui! Pas Posible! Voila!
Only someone with a sense of humor like mine could truly appreciate this and therefore, it hath been given unto me.
Thank you, G-man, for the monk who told me to lighten up. Thank you for the time I feel out of bed, as an adult. And really, thanks so much for Jacques, my own special frenchman because you and I know that when you have two cats, one cah-razy mom, a sarcastic know-it-all and a MAN from FRANCE living in one house in the suburbs, hilarity ensues!
Jacques isn't really his name, but he really really is french. He likes Sum 41. He wonders if there are any good clubs in Rockville. He is afraid of bees and asked my mom to kill one that got in his room.
He's friendly, he smokes, he doesn't watch tv, he's reading the Da Vinci Code (in french) and he wears shiney euro sneakers and carries a murse.
Yes, a man-purse. A murse.
Vive le France!