There was once a man named Dante Alighieri. You may have heard of him. He wrote Inferno, a cheerful, lighthearted little poem about hell.

According to Dante, hell is packed full of horrors: demons, monsters, rivers of blood, blazing tombs and other awful things. His version of hell is divided into concentric circles, and each is more gruesome than the one before.

What is in the innermost circle, you ask? What dreadful torment afflicts Satan himself?

The answer, of course, is snow.

Well, the answer is technically ice, but snow is close enough. (Snow consists of ice crystals, right?) Dante apparently disliked cold weather as much as I do.

Snow is falling outside. Well, falling isn’t the right word. The snow outside is traveling more or less horizontally, driven along by icy blasts of wind. It’s the first blizzard of winter, and it makes me wonder why I decided to come back to Indiana. I could have gone anywhere on Earth. I could have settled in the Sahara. Why did I choose the American Midwest?

As I grew up in Ecuador, snow was something remote: splashes of white on distant mountain peaks. At this moment, snow is a cold, wet carpet just outside my front door. I prefer my snow on faraway mountaintops. Right now, it’s too close for comfort.

I must admit snow can be quite pretty. On a night with no wind, a gentle snowfall is one of the most lovely things I’ve ever seen. New snow sparkles in the sunshine. Individual snowflakes, examined carefully, are microscopic works of art.

Tragically, the beauty of snow often comes at the cost of bitter cold, biting winds, icy roads and dreary skies. Even snow loses its charm. It becomes dull and crusty as days go by, or else turns to muddy slush.

At times like these, when wind rattles the windows and snowflakes turn the world white, I love lounging in an armchair, listening to Christmas music and drinking tea. Sooner or later, however, I must don my duster, set my face like flint and venture forth into the maelstrom of howling wind and stinging ice. It is a harrowing thought.

I’ve never before considered hibernation, but I like the thought of sleeping through the winter and awaking in the spring. Alas, my employer would probably disapprove. C’est la vie.

My job is often satisfying, sometimes discouraging, occasionally hilarious and never boring.

I work in a group home for men with mental and physical disabilities. As a residential trainer, my job is to help these gentlemen—officially titled consumers—live as independently as possible. So many interesting things have happened in my workplace in the past few months that I can’t help sharing a few brief sketches.

(To protect their privacy, I’ve given the consumers false names.)

Mark Twain is a sweet guy with a fine mustache who informs me there are mummies lurking everywhere. The refrigerator, the bathroom cupboards, beneath the sofa—nowhere is safe from these menacing spooks, which will, Mark Twain cheerfully informs me, bite off my throat and eat my eyeballs.

Edgar Allan Poe is an old gentleman who loves Dracula and scary movies. Due to dementia, he’s prone to outbursts of verbal and physical aggression, including cursing and death threats. In his calm moments, however, Edgar Allan Poe is quite a gentle fellow.

Charles Dickens, the oldest consumer at the group home, spends his days lounging in a recliner and watching television, getting up at intervals to amble around the house and shake hands with staff members.

Mentally speaking, Anton Chekhov is baby. He spends much of his time in a wheelchair, but enjoys crawling around the house.

When he’s not roaming the house in a mechanical wheelchair, Jules Verne likes playing with toys and listening to country music on his radio.

Rudyard Kipling gets around the house with a walker. He often sucks meditatively on one finger and stares into space, presumably thinking deep thoughts.

James Joyce is unquestionably the most trying resident of the group home. He suffers from obsessive compulsive disorder and a decidedly obnoxious personality.

Victor Hugo is a short, portly gentleman who smiles, mumbles and speaks either English or Russian—I haven’t figured out which. He bears strong resemblance to both Benjamin Franklin (the American thinker) and Otis Cambell (the drunk from The Andy Griffith Show).

A few consumers have honored me with unique names. On the occasions he remembers my name, Mark Twain calls me “Ayum.” Although Charles Dickens occasionally pronounces my last name as “Took,” he usually addresses me as “Moe” or “Doug.” James Joyce very pragmatically calls me “Man With Glasses.”

They may not always remember my name, but Mark Twain and Victor Hugo never forget my love of coffee. Hardly a shift goes by that one or the other doesn’t smile and mumble, “You want some coffee?”

The simple process of brewing coffee is complicated by Edgar Allan Poe. He’s on a tight fluid restriction, which means he’s not allowed to drink coffee. (My heart aches for the poor man.) Having explained to Mark Twain and Victor Hugo that coffee makes Edgar Allan Poe sick, I conspire with them to keep it hidden. At the moment, the microwave is our most reliable hiding spot.

I’d previously hidden the coffeepot atop kitchen cupboards, but stopped because of James Joyce. Staff members have been warned to keep their drinks out of sight due to his alarming tendency to steal them. Although James Joyce’s behaviors are sometimes frustrating, they can be hilarious. A police siren once sounded while James Joyce was sitting at the table. Glancing warily out the window, he muttered, “The police, they’re comin’ for me.”

I’m fascinated by the unique movements with which consumers move around the house. Victor Hugo pushes his walker with quick, mincing steps. Charles Dickens clomps noisily. Anton Chekhov crawls like an enormous baby. Mark Twain shambles, Edgar Allan Poe prowls, James Joyce sidles and Rudyard Kipling shuffles. Jules Verne wanders vaguely from room to room.

Some of the consumers are cheerful. Victor Hugo, for example, smiles constantly. Only once have I seen him lose his temper. When I tried taking off his foot brace in order to check an injury on his shin, he frowned and threatened to break my neck. It took much self-restraint to keep from laughing.

Not all of the consumers are as cheerful as Victor Hugo. My heart aches for Jules Verne, who seems to be on the verge of tears about half the time. I also pity Anton Chekhov, whose mind isn’t developed enough to understand why people do cruel things like scrubbing him with washcloths and forcing toothbrushes into his mouth.

There are days when I love my work, and days when I simply want to go home, drink tea and never sweep another floor or fill out another document or deal with another human being ever again.

Although I plan eventually to become a writer, teacher or editor, I’m thankful for my job. It gives me opportunities to serve others, and also free coffee.

I can’t ask for much more than that!

Mitigating circumstances is a flexible phrase, covering everything from vehicular breakdowns to medical emergencies to extraterrestrial invasions. Today, due to mitigating circumstances, my typewriter monkeys and I don’t have a regular blog post prepared.

However, as I was looking through some old files on my computer the other day, I stumbled upon a list of useful* French phrases. I think my mum sent them to me years ago. Where she found them, I haven’t the slightest idea.

This blog post presents each phrase in three parts. The first is the phrase in the original French. The second is a phonetic guide to pronunciation. The third is an English translation of the phrase.

Now, for the benefit of people everywhere, TMTF humbly presents thirteen French phrases for practical everyday use!

*Disclaimer: These phrases may not actually be useful. Do not use them in France.

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Tu as grossi. (tu ah gro—si) “You’ve put on weight.”

La police, ne t’a pas encore trouvé? (la po—lees ne ta pa zen—cor troo—vay) “Haven’t the police found you yet?”

Voulez-vous cesser de me cracher dessus pendant que vous parlez! (voo—lay voo se—say de me cra—shay de—su pen—dan que voo parl—ay) “Would you stop spitting on me while you’re talking!”

Le réalité et toi, vous ne vous entendez pas, n’est-ce pas? (le ree—al—ee—tay eh twa voo ne voo zen—ten—day pah nes pah) “Reality and you don’t get on, do they?”

De quoi est mort votre dernier esclave? (de kwa eh mor votr der—nee—er es—klahv) “What did your last slave die of?”

Je vous aurais bien aide, mais je ne vous aime pas. (zhe voo zaw—ray bien ai—de may zhe ne voo zaim—e pah) “I’d help you, but I don’t like you.”

Vos enfants sont très beaux. Ils sont adoptes? (vo zen—fant son tray boh. Il sont a—dop—te) “Your children are very attractive. Are they adopted?”

Ça pourrait être joli si c’etait décoré avec goût. (sa poo—ray etr zho—li si se—tay de—cor—ay avec gu) “It could be quite nice if it were decorated with taste.”

Combien de vos clients sont morts? (com—byen de vo clee—ent sont moo—ree) “How many of your customers have died?”

Ces poissons, ils sont mort d’irradiation? (se pwu—son il sont mor di—ray—di—ay—shun) “Did these fish die of radiation sickness?”

Comme dessert, que me suggereriez-vous pour effacer le goût du plat de resistance de ma bouche? (com de—zert com—en ke me su—zhair—er—i—ay voo poor eff—ah—say le goo du pla de re—zi—stans de ma boosh) “For dessert, what would you suggest to get the taste of the main course out of my mouth?”

Ce restaurant n’est pas aussi bon que le McDonalds. (se re—staw—ran neh pas o—si bon ke le mac don—alds) “This restaurant isn’t as good as McDonald’s.”

Je préfére l’Espagne. (zhe pre—fer les—pan—ya) “I like Spain better.”