There is a woman at work who I love. Not in the way a man loves a woman, or in the way gay cowboys love each other in Wyoming, or even in the way that Baloo loves Crumb’s litter box. But I digress…

Only reason she and I even know each other is that back in the day, she noticed I had Messenger running on my work PC, and wanted to know how to get it, too. I hooked her up, and so now we remain, ever after, partners in crime. We also bonded over another woman who no longer works here, because she overheard this woman – who I’d never met – bitching about me one time. (She hated the woman, too, and, like most of us, loves gossip, so she told me all about it.)

Anyway, she is tall, thin, and quite attractive. Also high maintenance – the hair, the nails, the year-round tan, the clothes. She wears precipitous shoes. She looks like she works at a hipper-than-thou ad agency or something, rather than an insurance company call centre.

Except then she opens her mouth. And the accent that comes out makes my brother sound like he just walked out of Buckingham Palace. Heh. Based on having met a few people from up north, and that her first name is “Frenchified”, there is no question she’s from northern Ontario. When I hear her talk I have to suppress the urge to grin mightily. It’s just too awesome. It’s like Carrie Bradshaw stepping daintily in Manolo Blahniks out of a rusted-out F150 pickup. šŸ™‚

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