Ever since I’ve known my colleague, Amelie Lauzon, she has been trying desperately to get pregnant. Everybody knows that she and her boyfriend, Gaetan (also a colleague) have been trying real hard. If you meet them for the first time, they might give you the link to their stem cell donation page on FaceBook.
They have named the page L’Ovaries d’Amelie. If you don’t leave a comment like ‘awww’ or ‘muaah’ there, or at the very least click on ‘like’, Amelie will take grievous offence and won’t speak with you ever again.
Amelie has had multiple false alarms over the years, when her periods didn’t start when they were supposed ta. They did perk her up momentarily though. On each occasion she came to work, glowing like one of those EnergyStar-rated balabs. Sorry, that’s how folk from the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh say ‘bulb’. Balab.
The routine became an all too familiar one, a repeat of the earlier delayed periods – Amelie enters the department, affects a dizzy spell and sort of lets the word slip, like. The last time it happened, she bounced into my cubicle and sat her tush on the corner of my table and said, “Spunky, first say you’re happy for me!”
“I’m happy for you, Amelie.” I must have sounded a bit absent-minded since I was a bit tied up with an analysis I had to submit to Nurse Ratched (the boss, female, flatter and more rectangular than Saskatchewan).
Amelie’s voice took on a hurt tone. “I didn’t know I meant so little to you,” she said and began rising from her perch but I sat her back down.
“Relax, I was just trying to piss you off. Don’t tell me you got yoreself a noo Mustang?”
“Uff! You men! All you think of is cars!” She sprang up and swept away in a huff. Of course I knew what she meant to tell me. That her periods had been scheduled for that day but didn’t come on. We all knew her monthly menstruation schedule more closely than the dates of our weekly Global Logistics Round-Up conference calls.
Last month, Amelie started menstruating on schedule but things being a bit hectic at the time, for once no one noticed it and therefore mentioned it. Gloria from Stores and Suki from Consumption Control came charging in, nervous expectation writ large on their faces.
“So? Is the cherry crush on or what?” They demanded in unison. Amelie nodded with a devastated look.
That day, the lunch table was abuzz with the latest Gaetan-Amelie menstruation updates. Keen aerospace engineering minds went into a huddle, deliberating on how to get Amelie’s periods to not come at all, instead of showing up late. We were genuinely sorry for her. These days you don’t get ta see many young women who are eager to become mothers.
While we were all attacking our pecan pies, Kenny began to hold forth. Kenny is our in-house expert on a wide range of topics that are even remotely connected to sex. He thinks that it is the way that Gaetan and Amelie are having sex, which is the problem. He has been suggesting that Gaetan and Amelie try it doggy style and for Gaetan to say ‘Woof! Woof!’ when he comes. Maybe then her baby will make it past the fallopian toob as a secondary oocyte and get ta date one of Gaetan’s sperms.
Gaetan took Kenny’s advice to heart. Last Sunday when I called to invite them to a BBQ on our patio, the phone went on ringing for a while and then Gaetan came on and in a hoarse voice, uttered, ” Woof! Woofitty Woof!” and slammed down the phone.
I went ahead with the BBQ all by myself. Our local butcher, Mon Boucher, makes burgers that are so fresh, they were breathing that morning. As I munched, my eyes strayed toward the flowers in our backyard and I couldn’t believe it. All of a sudden our backyard has turned into a Garden of Eden. There’s flahs everywhere. (‘flahs’ is how Anglo-Indians say ‘flowers’).
The flowers must have been there all along, only I had never noticed them. There are so many different varieties blooming all over – roses, lilacs, daisies, pansies, tinglitoos and dinkidoos. The last two, I made up. I have never once bothered ta ask the Persian woman who lives in my house and does all the gardening, what they are called.
I mean, whenever I’m in our backyard, I am situated on the patio deck with a beer, a book and my Ipad, swinging and swigging on the love-seat. I always make it a point ta sit facing our neighbors’ pool, in case their daughter has her friends over. The book is a prop. I can peer over it and unless they are checking the size of my pupils somehow, they won’t know I’m oglin’. I could write a PhD on how ta watch female legs without being obvious.
White female legs, lithe, milky, with thick fleshy calves and ankles. It has taken me ten years after landing here, to train my eyes to not automatically fall on them whenever a pair passes me by. Of course, in summer when the aforementioned Persian woman is usually half a world away on holiday, my eyes break training and just reeeelax for a couple of months.
Wish the women here would wear more ankle bracelets, like women in India regularly do. A thin silvery ankle bracelet or chain with tiny bells can transform an ankle. The problem with Indian women is that usually they have unattractive, spindly legs that begin from a humongous tummy-butt region and taper down to thin bony ankles. I hate massive derrieres, tapering legs and spindly ankles.
And calves? Heck, calves are non-existent in Indian women. A white woman has calves that can easily feed a family of six, in case she is shipwrecked and washes up unwittingly on one of those Papua New Guinea islands that are inhabited by the Urapmin tribe. They are calf and ankle guys like me. Only, they don’t go ‘woof!’, they go ‘chomp!’.
I think I’ll just potter around the garden a bit. The Persian woman has left instructions for me ta dig up that empty flah bed next to the fence and plant murdochs. Don’t know what murdochs are, do ya? Iris->Iris Murdoch->murdoch. I name things and people by association. It’s fun when you’re nuts. Try it.
Planting murdochs by the fence is just fine with me. I hear splashing, shrieks and giggles from the other side.