Foreign Devils

You know, the guy I'm head over heels for (yes, I know - but you know me, there really is no point in denying the obvious) is from England. I never really think about it since I speak English with a lot of people, but sometimes I find myself realising exactly how incredibly English he really is. Let me give you an example. Have you ever heard the word "settee"? Ah no, that's "setter" and it's a creature with a tail. Apparently a "settee" is a couch. I mean, sure I get that they want to be original, but for the love of god - adapt to the world!
I wish you could've heared the disgust in his voice when he had to explain to me that it was a "couch". It was hilarious. Although I guess I shouldn't laugh at him - I'll probably end up using it myself. I mean, it's in my vocabulary now. Oh the horror!
Of course, it always makes me a bit happy when I try to explain things and he doesn't really get it. Like when I told him what a "schäslong" [shae:sl:ong] is. "It's like a long thing you sit on and then you have support for the back where the head is? You know, sort of like a shrink-couch?" "Ah, so a settee?" "Well, yea... I suppose..."
Do you know what the worst part is? I'm gonna start talking like him. Yea, I can just feel it creeping up on me. It's like when I visited the Netherlands and had my lovely whatever-dialect, on Thursday and Friday, then slipped into some strange British version on Saturday and then had the most strange dialect I've ever had on Sunday. And I just couldn't make it stop! Mommy, I'm scared.

Days like these I wish my underwear would fit my ass better. Or that I just wore a bloody thong. (And yes, I just realised how very wrong that sentence is.)