Peculiarities

Last night, I overheard a classmate’s cell phone conversation during a break from class. He was asking his girlfriend/wife/woman of choice to pick up a "sangwich" for him when she got dinner. Another thing that really bothers me, and I have heard it from several New Mexicans, is their use of the word "acrost". This isn’t Spanglish, and I don’t consider such language dialectical. Did I miss hearing about the great spelling changes in all dictionaries and vocabulary books? Did their parents teach them to mispronounce common, easy words deliberately?

Regional pronunciations are funny. I grew up in southern New Jersey, but I don’t sound like it. I believe it’s because my parents are from Illinois. Then again, I don’t have the flat, nasal vowels like Chicagoans (nor do my parents). The summer I spent on Long Island (New York), I had a hoot teasing one of the natives about her pronunciation. While in Alabama, I had to resist assuming that everyone was stupid, based on the medias’ stereotype of southern dialects.

While I’m addressing language, here’s something else odd I noticed the other day. On the rear window of a car parked at the campus Greek Complex was the message, "Proudly engaged!" Does that mean anyone who doesn’t proclaim their impending nuptials to the world with screaming yellow paint is merely "humbly engaged"? Do you suppose, if this person were an English major, s/he would be "unabashedly betrothed"?

I walked to have my hair cut tonight. The tonsorial emporium is on "franchise row", a street teeming with nationally known establishments for dining and shopping. I passed one fast-food restaurant advertising "junior" sandwiches for 99 cents. That reminded me of the time I ordered a "value" hamburger at a competitor (also on that street). I realized that the reason I could pay less for a cheeseburger with bacon than for a regular cheeseburger was because the sandwich consisted of a miniature meat patty and tired bacon strip on a regular size bun. I asked my dining companion, "Isn’t this the same chain that once advertised, ‘Where’s the beef?’"

The woman who usually cuts my hair wasn’t working tonight, so I chanced it with another "stylist". When she reached my sideburns, I told her to leave them alone. In general, women have no clue how to handle sideburns. The vast majority of time, they end up butchering mine, so I have learned to tell them politely to keep their cutting implements on the remainder of my head. Once in a blue moon, I find a woman that seems to know how they (my sideburns, not the woman herself) should look, so I keep going to her. (My current regular is one of two I have known). I really should find a barber shop, where I don’t even have to tell the barber what to do because he’s a man and he knows sideburns.

Speaking of the remainder of my head, my hair appears to be regularly progressing backwards and down (though, thankfully, not down to my back). The stylist had difficulty finding enough hair to cut on top, but the sides and back are still fairly thick. I used to know it was time for a haircut when my hair hung in front of my eyes. Tonight, I realized that my hairline is so far up that I seriously wondered if I should have told her not to bother. The new benchmark I use is when the hair above my ears starts to look like wings on the side of my head. When I start to look like Mercury’s sandals (or, considering the amount of gray in my sideburns, like Grandpa Munster), I know it’s time for a haircut.

There’s one guy at my gym who doesn’t appear to work out at all, even though he always is dressed in a tank top and shorts. For the life of me, I can’t figure this out. Usually, I see him chatting with the staff. The other day, he was standing outside, talking to another one of the members. Once, I saw him pushing a mop-like device back and forth on the wooden floor of the group-exercise room. The cherry on top of this parfait was the day he arrived at the same time as me, and when I left after my workout, a full hour and a half later (weights & cardio), he was still talking to the staff members at the front desk!

My new bed arrived yesterday. It is much bigger than it appeared in the furniture store. (This, the deliveryman explained, is because the store displays only queen size beds, and I have a king.) It is a very nice bed, in the exact style I wanted, and the finish matches my dresser (purchased seven years ago in a different state) very well. There’s only one teensy problem: the headboard is so high that it blocks my circuit panel. I had to set up the bed eight inches away from the wall so that I can open the door to reach the circuit breakers. An adult could fit in that much space while playing hide-and-seek.

Speaking of bedroom games, I was pondering how best to share my pride in my new furniture without sounding too weird. "Hey, want to see my new bed?" sounds odd, if not downright suggestive. (Have to use that one carefully.) Then, I had an idea. I’ve been pondering (yes, I do that a lot) what the theme of my next party should be. I’ve already done a housewarming and a Halloween party. How about, when I can afford to buy the matching chest of drawers, I throw a "My bedroom set is complete!" party? Oh wait. I forgot that I really want a nice chair for that corner under the torchiere lamp. I guess I’ll have to think of another theme if I want a party some time this year. (By the way, does anyone need a metal, king size, bed frame?)

As I undressed for my shower, I pulled up the waistband of my underwear, as it had ridden down a little. Why did I bother? First of all, there was no one else around to note the ill fitting garment. Second, I took off all my clothes less than a minute later.

Share this one with your friends in other parts of the country. It concerns the weather here (a recurring topic). It is not surprising for the temperature to jump forty degrees in one day. It nearly happened today in Las Cruces. I left for work this morning wearing gloves and a knit hat. This afternoon, I left work with the windows down and the air conditioner on because it had gotten so warm inside my car.

One final thought before I post this. I learned this one while I lived in Alabama. They say that, if you live in the South and want to fly anywhere, even to Hell, you have to change planes in Atlanta. (This did appear to be true.) There was one part of flying to/from Atlanta that I did enjoy; it was a short flight (less than an hour) between Montgomery, AL and Atlanta, GA. This makes for an unusual conversation piece that I love to trot out every now and then. Atlanta is in the Eastern time zone. Montgomery is in the Central time zone. Ergo, flying west from Atlanta to Montgomery, you subtract an hour. This means, in the less-than-an-hour flight from Eastern to Central, you actually land before you took off! ("Einstein’s Delivery Service: When you absolutely, positively need it there yesterday.")