My wife argues that my columns often require a great deal of editing, suggesting my East Coast dialect is often apparent. She points, in particular, to what she considers my appalling spelling and inexcusable articulation.
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We’ve spent over half our lives here in San Diego yet, she insists, I still tend to advance what she refers to as a “Brooklynese slant.”
But I maintain, after all these years, I no longer have the issues she complains of.
But she disagrees, suggesting I still retain an unfortunate accent, as well as appalling spelling, which is apparent in both conversation and columns, maintaining, she insists, that neither comes through as especially pleasing.
“Even grating!” she insists.
“Some inflections,” she claims, “are more welcoming than others. “Like The French,” she declares. She says their pronouncements are nothing short of what you might term supoib.
Regrettably, even after all this time living here, my bride never fails to seize the opportunity to suggest my diction is something less than poifect.
She wonders how it’s possible for a poison with such grammatical impoifections to author what I consider a legitimate column in a maja noospaypa.
Although I can’t seem to find the errors she maintains are clearly abundant, she proofreads my columns and amends any woids she deems might require convoision, even though her complaints appear to be rather supoifluous.
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I’ve asked her to check my latest woik to detoiman if she’s able to find any such errors. She claims she’s uncovered dozens of such inaccuracies, an allegation a seasoned joinalist like myself finds rather hard to suppawt.
Why, I question, is my wife so critical of my elocution, while she deems our French neighbor’s pronouncements to be what she calls “adorable,” even though that neighbor’s articulation most folks find incomprehensible, notwithstanding the fact that she’s been residing in America for more than five decades.
She and her husband came to join us for dinner last week and they were kind enough to stop at See’s Candies to bring us a combination of what she called showcolat-covered valnuts, noogatz and abrigatz.
She’s married to an Italian gentleman whose accent and delivery is even worse than hers, as he hails from an area located some 1,500 miles from her former community, but apparently, they get along just fine, even though they don’t seem to understand each other.
“Mio bellissima moglie,” he declares, “et meravavigliosa.”
“What he say?” his bride asks.
“I believe,” I reply, “that he said that he’s crazy about you.”
“Ah, oui,” she declares. “Mon mari et un gentilhomme charmant.”
“Inglese traduzione, per favore,” her husband appeals.
“I’m pretty sure she said that she loves you,” I reply.
They proceed to share a kiss and a loving embrace, even though I’m certain neither were able to comprehend my sorry translation.
It makes me wonder how two people from distant areas can get along so well, while my wife and I have so much difficulty finding harmony, even though we hail from the same community and speak a common language.
I suggest the answer lies in the fact that they’re blessed with the fact they come from two different countries, speak separate languages, and can’t understand each other.
Erdos is a freelance humor columnist. Contact him at [email protected].
