le French

My roommate Liz and I are alike in many, many ways including our complete lack of ability to control ourselves around carbs. Wait, maybe that's just me. But who, my I ask, shoved 2/3 of a bag of Salt & Vinegar chips into her mouth yesterday?

Oh, yeah, that was me.

But whose desk is currently scattered with empty Dove Promises wrappers? Hmm?



Oh. Still me.





Okay . . . . moving on.



My point is Liz and I have similar tastes and habits. One of our more charming propensities is our customary practice of falling into certain accents when the need (I'm using that word quite flexibly) arises. Yeah, we're "those" people. We're the girls who don't drop our British accents for hours after a viewing of Bridget Jones. We're the ones who insert a "Right, mate?" into every conversation about Australia and I am apparently unable to make spaghetti without sounding an awful lot like Pavarotti. And do not even think about mentioning Nazis around us unless you want an earful of "Auch der wieder! Mein Kampf! Sauerkraut!" (It's a good thing we're not annoying or anything.)

The other day we saw a couple on House Hunters International looking for an apartment in Paris. Obviously, Liz and I had exaggerated French accents for the remainder of the evening. (I ended up supplementing my accent with a sprinkling of Spanish words and Liz sounded more Russian than anything by the end of the night, but that's beside the point.)

At our encouragement she join us, Karen whined, "But I can't do accents!"

"Zis es too baid for yooh," Liz responds.



And we wonder why so much eye-rolling goes on in our house.