I've been obssesed lately with British things.
Accents, shows, people.
Blame Downton Abbey and Sophie Kinsella audio books.
And Robert Irvine from that show "Restaurant Impossible".
Everywhere I turn, I am greeted with that cheeky accent.
AND I LOVE IT.
The other night, I was lying in bed watching Robert Irvine tear down and then build up a restaurant and the restaurantuer.
(BTW, He has enormous biceps)
I started wondering what I would be like if I had a father who was that forceful and direct.
(in my head, I just said die-rect)
My dad is a bit of a lamb, dahling, so I asked my husband what he thought.
Of me. Raised by Robert Irvine.
I said, "Can you imagine?
'Whaut do you meeen you got ahh C on your report cod?' "
(Are you saying that in an accent?)
'Cause I did. And apparently it was a bad one.
Because my husband laughed and then I laughed and we sort of belly laughed together until it hurt.
And then I went to sleep.
And dreamt in a british accent.
So this, friends, is my new fah-sea-na-tion.
And it's lovely.
And so ah you.
POST SCRIPT:
I've just come back from dinner with my husband. As we were walking out of Chevy's, he hucked a big louggie (how in the world do you spell that?!)
Very unluckily, I saw him do it. And my gag reflex kicked in. I thought I might lose my fajitas in the rhododendrons. He quickly, quickly said he was sorry that I had to see that.
Then he blamed it on the lemonade.
I said it was ok, except for the fact that I can't stop seeing the way it fell, so heavy-not lightly like a snowflake,-but so fast because it was weighted down spit.
He said, "Wow. You really are thinking about that aren't you."
And then, THEN!, I said, (in my *best* british accent)
"I cahn't ba-leeve you just spat on thee ahss-fault."
Brillant, I know.
We laughed and drove out of the parkinglot making more chatter (me in the accent). We joked about playing a game called Downtown Abbey (whinkey face) and blah, blah, blahed ourselves
to another restaurant. (where the desserts are better)
Once we were seated, he handed me the dessert menu and asked me to read the descriptions in my best accent. (I love when he indulges me)
It was pretty bad, but we were laughing so hard, who really cares. Even the bartendar saw us and laughed a little. Maybe she thought we (I) were (was) tipsy.
The sweets were delicious and my husband told me about a collegue of his and how, while they were emailing back and forth, the lady said she would get him the information, "right quick."
He told me he thought, "Rachel would love that."
After eating little (whittle) bits of 3 different desserts, we paid and left.
On the car ride home, he told me about a friend of his from his highschool days in Singapore. She was british and she pronounced aluminun al-loo-min-e-um.
(Say it outloud. It's awesome.)
And then I thought about the time, when I was in highschool, when a guy friend took bites of a sandwich, chewed it all around in his mouth, and let a dog eat it out of his mouth.
And I thought, what the heck does my husband see in me?
I did get a wee bit sad. For just a second. Then my husband asked me to say something in my cockney accent. And the insecure moment passed.
Do yourself a favor, give your inner monologue an accent. Especially if you are going to think crazy things.
It all so much betta bri-ish.
