Hi!
This is my last ditch effort at avoiding the dishes. After this, I will have run out of excuses. I have been trying to think of something to write but I couldn’t So, I decided to tell you that.
I just got back from my friend’s house. She has such a true southern drawl and I love to hear her speak. I think I’ve been in the south too long because nobody makes fun of my “accent” much anymore. Every so often, I come across a native of the sticks who speaks that special, uneducated southern that no one can comprehend.
One day I was driving around looking for a guitar shop so that I could buy some strings. I stopped at a store along the way and asked the lady if she knew where there was a guitar shop. She began giving me directions. Almost immediately, I noticed a man behind her with a confused look on his face. At one point, he interrupted her and asked, “Where are you sending this lady?”
She responded, in her southern accent, “Firestone.”
“Firestone?”, he replied, still with that bewildered look on his face.
She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Well, she said she needed a gud tar shop!”
“Let me rephrase that,” I said, “GEET-TAR shop.”
I have lived in so many places that nobody owns me. Wherever I go, people ask me where I’m from. I could be at a high school reunion and people will ask, "Where are you from?"
“I went to high school with you, ya nut!”
When I lived in California, I went shopping at Mervyn’s with my aunt, Jean Sachs, one day. That was back in the day when you could put things on your account without a card. I needed socks. The following exchange transpired with the sales lady:
“Can you tell me where your socks are?
“What kind of sacks?”
“Not sacks....socks.”
“Sacks?”
“No, socks, like you wear between your foot and your shoe!”
“Oh, SAWKS!”
“OK, where are your SAWKS?”
She pointed me to the sawks. When I brought the sawks to her register, our conversation went like this:
“Cash or account?”
“Account.”
“What’s the name?”
“Sachs.”
“Sawks?”
“No, SACHS, let me spell it....”
In California they say I sound like I’m from the Bronx, in Chicago they say I have a southern accent and in the south, they just say “You ain't from these parts, are you?” Well, I better go do those dad-gummed dishes.
Meg
This is my last ditch effort at avoiding the dishes. After this, I will have run out of excuses. I have been trying to think of something to write but I couldn’t So, I decided to tell you that.
I just got back from my friend’s house. She has such a true southern drawl and I love to hear her speak. I think I’ve been in the south too long because nobody makes fun of my “accent” much anymore. Every so often, I come across a native of the sticks who speaks that special, uneducated southern that no one can comprehend.
One day I was driving around looking for a guitar shop so that I could buy some strings. I stopped at a store along the way and asked the lady if she knew where there was a guitar shop. She began giving me directions. Almost immediately, I noticed a man behind her with a confused look on his face. At one point, he interrupted her and asked, “Where are you sending this lady?”
She responded, in her southern accent, “Firestone.”
“Firestone?”, he replied, still with that bewildered look on his face.
She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Well, she said she needed a gud tar shop!”
“Let me rephrase that,” I said, “GEET-TAR shop.”
I have lived in so many places that nobody owns me. Wherever I go, people ask me where I’m from. I could be at a high school reunion and people will ask, "Where are you from?"
“I went to high school with you, ya nut!”
When I lived in California, I went shopping at Mervyn’s with my aunt, Jean Sachs, one day. That was back in the day when you could put things on your account without a card. I needed socks. The following exchange transpired with the sales lady:
“Can you tell me where your socks are?
“What kind of sacks?”
“Not sacks....socks.”
“Sacks?”
“No, socks, like you wear between your foot and your shoe!”
“Oh, SAWKS!”
“OK, where are your SAWKS?”
She pointed me to the sawks. When I brought the sawks to her register, our conversation went like this:
“Cash or account?”
“Account.”
“What’s the name?”
“Sachs.”
“Sawks?”
“No, SACHS, let me spell it....”
In California they say I sound like I’m from the Bronx, in Chicago they say I have a southern accent and in the south, they just say “You ain't from these parts, are you?” Well, I better go do those dad-gummed dishes.
Meg
posted by Meg Kelso | 6:02 PM
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