cheese, wine, and other imports

If I were a Dude, I would be all over French chicks. Especially ones named Annick. I have yet to meet an Annick I don't like. The woman who leads my Saturday morning gym class is Annick; a beautiful brunette with an imperfect tongue and an infectious smile and laugh: the pale and predictable prairie girl I am is pathetic next to her. She's a dream, and is one of the only ones who can coax me to count aloud squats with her (I don't chant with the others usually; I feel like a dumb ass). But for Annick? I'll even numerate en français.

One of the women I work closely with is a Francophone. Spending time with her in Whitehorse made me realize why I always pick up the phone when she calls my desk after 6 pm (I don't with everyone). She's always been a sweet thing; accommodating, understanding, and, most importantly, patient. These qualities were tested though, when at the Fancy Dancy Supper we were at, we walked into the room to discover an Assigned Seating Arrangement (party planners everywhere are gasping). We had planned to sit next to each other; the master list had us at opposite ends of the room. "I hate when people tell me where to sit," she hissed, unleashing her inner sovereigntist - personal, not political (although how can these two things ever be separate?) "I. Hate. It." Beowulf couldn't slay that dragon.

This is why I love them, those thorny roses who could care less if you'd prefer they not smoke in front of you. ("There's the door. Use it.") Because - piss on it - doesn't matter what you think. No one tells them where to sit. No one suggests to them when it's time to go home. No one writes their constitution for them.

Blow smoke rings in their faces because, well, piss on it. And that's the only reason. I dig it.