Lately the Hero has developed an interest in learning French in the hopes of someday traveling somewhere he might use it, like in a local continuing education class.
So as he washes the dishes -- it is typically the Hero's lot to do the dishes at our house -- he listens to an audiobook on beginning French. Knives and forks are cleaned to the sounds of "bong-swahr" and "bong-zhoor."
"Mair-see. Thank you."
"Eel nyah pah der kwah. You're welcome."
"Kohmmang tahlay voo?...Tray byang, mair-see. How are you? Very well, thanks."
"Would you slow down?!" he says in exasperation to the unseen, unhearing speaker.
Then he discovers that he can slow the speed of the words down as they are spoken, so that "tray byang" becomes "trayyyyyy byyyyyangggg..."
I comprehend none of this, until I hear, "Non. Non. Non, Monsieur. Non. Non. Non. Non. Non."
This I judge to be an appropriate response to telemarketers, or perhaps someone selling something on the streets of Paris.
"I think you have that one down," I yell encouragingly.
Finally, with the dishes and his tutoring session done, he comes over to me at my computer.
"Mon uno cutio. Cuticus. Uh, cutioso," he says to me lovingly, looking at me like I should know what that means.
"Did you just call me a cute snail?" I ventured.
"Maybe," he says. "I was going for 'my cute one,' but I didn't learn cute yet. Does Mademoiselle like it when I speak French to her, yes?"
"Well, Mademoiselle is actually a Madame" --
"I always get those mixed up!" he says.
"But yes, as long as you don't call me a snail, I like it."
"Tray byang, Trayyyyyy byyyyyangggg..."
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