It’s good to know the majority of words I’ve misspelled in the recent past have been French, a language I took one class in (no, not one course, but actually a one hour-long class when I was a sophomore in college). I dropped French after the first day and signed up for philosophy instead. (Yeah, that served me well.) As they say in Springfield, “Camus can do, but Sartre is smartre.”

And I may not be able to properly spell ménage à trois (oh wait, I just did!), but I know what one smells like…. Hee hee! And dear Editor (i.e., Stephen), what other non-Francophone can not only properly spell pamplemousse but order a vegetarian pizza in the Grand (Old) Duchy of Luxembourg and a café au lait in Montreal without any problem?

Le chat est bleu right back to you! (That’s the only thing I learned during my French studies. Everything else has been picked up during covert listenings to Pimsleur tapes, a drunken night with Poles at the Noir Désir concert, conversations with pretentious academics & artists, my world(ly) travels, as well as a shared car with a stoned Frenchman on the overnight train from Prague to Warsaw).

Speak my language: Franglais!