“Do you know what yiminy means?” I asked my friend as we left Sweet Mama’s restaurant on Courtenay Place. Jambalaya with friends on a cold night after seeing the film Prague is an excellent way of passing a cold rainy August Monday evening.
“Yemeni?” she said, “as in from Yemen?”
“No, yiminy as in by yiminy.”
She looked at me quizzically. I started to explain, but how can you really convey the essence of Helen and keep the story short or avoid being distracted? (Note: for clarification, see comments on X=XX) Anyway, after an afternoon of googling yiminy, and consulting my well-read friend, I was really none the wiser.
So we turned to other things. Twenty minutes later we were still talking furiously as I pulled up outside her apartment, still talking as she got out of the car, and barely stopped as she shut the door. By this time we were debating the merits of a gold medal in the shot put over a bronze in the 1500 metres.
The two of us could talk the hind-leg off a donkey, as my dad would have said. Why is it that possessors of the Y-chromosome just don’t get a woman’s need to converse, and the pleasure that can be taken, sharing ideas and lives? It should be admired, but instead “yak, yak, yak,” they complain.