Currently listening to: Abracadabra – Lady Gaga
Hold me in your heart tonight
In the magic of the dark moonlight
Save me from this empty fight
In the game of life
I’ve dated two men who spoke fluent French (one used to live in France and the other was half French), and let’s just say my attempts at speaking the language were… not appreciated.
Every time I so much as attempted a French word – which mind you, wasn’t often – they would practically beg me to stop, as if my pronunciation had single-handedly desecrated centuries of French culture.
Case in point:
“OMG, I’m so hungry, let’s get crapes”
“What are crapes?”
“You know, those French pancake thingies?”
“Crêpe.”
“Yeah, crapes! They’re so good.”
“Please stop…”
“Stop what?”
“You’re saying it wrong. It’s embarrassing.”
“My bad.”
Or that other time:
“I want a breakfast sando on a croissant.”
“A what?”
“Ya know, breakfast sandwich on a croissant.”
“Immediately, no.”
“What?”
“Please, honey, no…it’s not even right. It’s pronounced, ‘k(r)wäˈsän(t)’.”
I’m sure they’ll be happy to know that I now pronounce all the words I mispronounced in the past correctly. I no longer cause mild cardiac distress to French speakers. Merci beaucoup to my exes. It was not all in vain.
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