Regional Pronunciations

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Today I am grateful for regional pronunciations. Is that a stretch? Perhaps, but as I was walking out of the “Y” locker room this morning a friend asked, “What are you writing about today?” I told her I didn’t have a clue. . .and by the time I drove home I did. I love my life! What on earth is writers’ block?

Here’s the deal. My husband is 15 years older than me and was born and raised in New Jersey. I’m majorly young (by comparison-ha-ha) and was born in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, which is where we met. I would expect these odd regional pronunciations if he was born down south (all ‘y all), but not from east to Midwest.

When getting dressed he puts on his “drawers” and “dungarees”. I wear “underpants” and “jeans”. When I’m driving and he’s giving directions so that I don’t get lost for the millionth time, he says, “Turn right at the “stop street”.” The what? I call it a “stop sign”. If there is a green, red and yellow light at the corner to him it’s a “stop light”, to me a “stop & go light”. Otherwise you’d be there forever, right? Work with me here.

On St. Paddy’s Day he turns the “steeereeo” as high as it goes. I turn the “staireo” down. Sometimes I ask him to go into my “purse” for something. “It’s in the second zipper after the one with the ring on, in the big part of the purse on the left side. Apparently, to a man, this is tantamount to being asked to land on the beaches of Normandy with a pea shooter. “I can’t find a thing in that “pocket book!”” His brain goes into shut-down the minute after I make a request. He and his sister call it “cwauwfee”, but sometimes I have a cup of “coffee”.

My favorite, my all-time favorite is how he calls them “flip-flops” and I call them “thongs”. Okay, pull your mind back from that one. I’ll give you a minute. . . I’m not talking about the kind of thong that passes for dental floss for your butt crack. Yuk! When I have spent a career yanking my underpants/drawers out of there, why would anyone ever do it on purpose? What sadist invented them? Anyway, I’m talking about the beach sandals that jam between your big toe and the one next to it, that everyone now wears everywhere, including sometimes at the beach.

We’re married so I have a natural resistance to falling into his regional pronunciation, but from now on it is flip-flops for me. . .the other just dredges up too much emotional trauma. Thank you and you’re welcome, Marge!

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