So, I Married a Polyglot

               I married a polyglot.  My husband did not.   Ben is fluent in Tagalog (the national language of the Philippines), Cebuano (the dialect from his island) and English. He speaks passable, Arabic and Spanish.  I can speak English, enough American Sign Language to be considered a mildly communicative introvert and Spanish, but only to the extent that I can order food, ask for the bathroom and admire your statues, should you have any.

                I feel I need to learn Tagalog (pronounced Tuh-gah-log, not Tag-a-log Like I thought), if for no other reason than I want to understand my husband’s heritage.  Also, I want to be able to at least carry on a conversation with his family in their native tongue.  To do otherwise is arrogant and I am not trying to be that American, y’all.  

                Ben has been a patient teacher trying to help my Southern mouth wrap around the syllables and pronunciations of this unfamiliar language.  There are nasal tones and a lot of use of the back portion of the tongue on the roof of the mouth, which is difficult.  I’ve been practicing but there are times it feels like I’m making fun of Asian people because the words sound incorrect to my English ears.  At the same time, I am introducing Ben to some of the more relaxed vernacular of America, especially the South.

                There have been times where we’ve discussed the limitations of languages and how difficult it must be to a non-native speaker to learn English as there are so many quirky rules.  He feels Tagalog is a complete language, but I disagree.  There have been a number of times where Tagalog has been found lacking in its ability to translate all the phrases that pop out of my mouth on a frequent basis.  I have decided to share with you the Top Ten Phrases That Cannot be Translated in Tagalog.

1.       “That heifer needs to get somebody to fix this closet door!” Referring to our landlord.

2.       “All right, sister friend, you need to learn how to merge or get out of my way!” Referring to the ridiculous woman in front of us on The 405.  This was said with the window rolled up because I am not about to get shot, y’all.

3.       “That big donkey is 17 kinds of stupid!” Referring to so many people.

4.       “Do what now?”   The way I sometimes ask for clarification.

5.       “Your Mama didn’t raise you right!”  Referring, again, to so many people.

6.       “They are workin’ my last nerve, for real!”  See above.

7.       “My cousin is straight runnin’ crazy!”  You know who you are.

8.       “I’m-a pray for you, heathen!”  Often said with (self) righteous condemnation, like a good Evangelical.

9.       “Today put a whoopin’ on me like I stole money from it!”  Said at the end of a particularly rough day.

10.   “My bad, girl!”  Said more often than I care to admit, referring to both men and women.

You see, there are limits to Tagalog.  To be fair there are limits to English as well, since Redneck is not a recognized language, even though I speak it fluently.  We’ll keep working at it until we get it right.

Lyon lang ang sinasabi ko ngayon, y’all.  For real.

Notes on Marriage: Year One

              I have been married for a little over a year.  As I’ve reflected on Year One, I must say that I’ve learned so many of the oft hidden nuances of love and marriage with my best friend who likes to smooch.  One of those nuances is the feeling you get when you’ve demonstrated your love for your spouse, and they have no idea that you did, so they don’t quite understand your look of quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that you are a ‘giver’ and possibly ‘love them more’ than they love you.  It’s a selfless kind of smug superiority.  Allow me to explain. 

                Saturday morning my delightful husband woke up early and walked to our favorite local bakery and bought me a ham and cheese croissant, literally the same size as my face, which we all know is substantial.  It’s one of my favorite breakfasts.  I cut the croissant in half, deciding to save the rest for him to enjoy post-swim, as he immediately left for the gym to get his daily exercise.

                I was content with my portion and savoring each bite and drinking the Army-strong coffee, made perfectly sweet with enough cream and fake sugar to make my liver gently weep.  After a half-hour, I glanced at the remaining croissant and it beckoned.  No, I thought, I’m saving that for Ben.  He will enjoy it and be touched by my generosity and I will be the best husband in all the land.  But like James Bond taught us, Never Say Never.

                I held fast for about 15 minutes.  I swear to you, the croissant made an overt gesture, willing me to finish it.  I struggled to stay seated and attempted to look away, grabbing my Smithsonian magazine in a desperate attempt to find the cover article “Man on the Moon” more interesting than noshing on the remaining French delicacy.  I held myself in check for about 30 seconds and then, without a shred of self-control or shame, I enjoyed the other half of the croissant, assuaging my guilt by reminding myself that Ben is focused on his physique much more than I and probably wouldn’t want to eat the croissant anyway.  It worked.  Guilt was gone, y’all, and the croissant was devoured.

                When Ben came home, after more than an hour of swimming, looking all fit and trim, he was completely unaware that I had planned on saving him some of the croissant but hadn’t.  He asked for, and I made him, oatmeal with blueberries, which he consumed happily and heartily.  I sat across from him, self-satisfied and smiling, basking in the knowledge that I had literally (almost) sacrificed for him. I’m a good person, y’all.  Truly.

Baptists and their Beverages

                I spent my childhood smack dab in the middle of the Fundagelical paradise known as The Deep South (LA, MS, TX), specifically within the confines of the Southern Baptist Church.  Southern Baptists set themselves apart from other Fundagelicals in many ways, but the most interesting and least understood is their view on beverages, especially those consumed on the grounds of the church.

                Baptists don’t drink alcohol at home, so why would they defile the sanctity of the church by drinking actual wine during the Lord’s Supper, which is what we call Communion.  It’s the main reason Baptists think Catholics are headed straight to hell.  That and their worship of Mary, Jesus’ Mama.  The Baptist interpretation of verses found in the Bible when referring to wine, is that it is often called new wine, which to them means unfermented grapes which is grape juice.  Ah, grape juice.  The nectar of the god, or rather, God.  I know, what you’re going to say.  What about the wine at that wedding in Cana?  To that they will say, it was also grape juice.  If you press any further, they will call a prayer circle about the condition of your soul. 

                Baptists think Mormons are in a cult and that is unacceptable.  However, Baptists do insist on the children “drinking the Kool-Aid”.  The way it is not cult-like is the fact that the Kool-Aid is served in Children’s Church or Vacation Bible School or other moments when children should be seen and not heard.  Of course, the recipe does nothing to encourage enjoyment or fun as the recipe seems to be nine parts water, one part Kool-Aid mix, one part prayer and one more part water, just in case.  Red Kool-Aid, which is a flavor by the way, was something precious, akin to Frankincense and/or Myrrh.  How else would you explain the all-encompassing need to water it down to a shade of red that more closely resembles the color of your white underwear after it’s been washed and dried with a new red t-shirt because you can’t be bothered to listen to your mother when she gives you specific laundry instructions, Dustin Terryll. 

                The most important water, Baptistry Water, plays a very important part in baptism, the full immersion kind.  The best way to describe the baptistry in a Baptist church is to imagine there is a hot tub behind a curtain directly behind the choir loft which is directly behind the altar where the preacher preaches and the unclean become ‘washed in the blood’.  Right above the hot tub may be a simple cross.  There will not be a carving of Jesus hanging on that cross, because that reeks of Catholicism and we are having none of that all up and through here, do you hear me?   Back to the water: the best way to ensure you are well and truly saved is a full immersion baptism, like John did for Jesus in the Bible, y’all.  Real Christians don’t get sprinkled with water like those uppity Presbyterians.  You must be held under the water for a minute or two, so you can let your old spirit die there in the watery depths like the victims of a shark or jellyfish (if you’re allergic).  Only then can you say that you are saved.  Sprinkles are for cupcakes, heathen. 

                According to Dolly Parton, sweet tea is the house wine of the South.  While we don’t necessarily like that language, sweet tea is everywhere, especially during the dinners-on-the-grounds that happen every month where there are five Sundays as well as Easter and Mother’s Day.  It was all a part of the tradition that allowed you to discuss the various sins of the other Baptists, who happened to sit at a different table than you.  If you fell into a discussion of the strength (or lack) of their walk or their level of maturity as a Christian and what, specifically, they need to do to atone themselves in your…I mean, Jesus’s eyes, it wasn’t gossip; it was fellowship. 

                Finally, there is a particular beverage, served at Baptist weddings, that only exists in space and time next to a cake, several bowls of Jordan Almonds and nowhere near anything resembling food.  Baptist Wedding Punch is delicious and helps you identify the female members of the wedding party.  Any young lady who is wearing a dress the same color as the punch is a bridesmaid.  The recipe consists of your choice of the three flavors of sherbet available at the Piggly Wiggly (orange, lime or raspberry) mixed with Sprite or any off-brand lemon-lime soda.  Ginger Ale comes from Canada and we are not having any of that Yankee nonsense.    

Obviously, this limits your color schemes to variations on pastels.  If you are looking for colors outside that narrow list, your heart is not right with God.  Yellow means you are a hippy and worthy of scorn.  Brown means you are tacky and is proof you weren’t ‘raised right’.  Black means you are trying to be fancy like an Episcopalian and they worship Queen Elizabeth II or some other gobbledygook and you need to sit down and listen while grown folks tell you all about yourself.  If you are planning red dresses for your bridesmaids, you are a harlot.  And not like that heroine/wayward soul Rahab, who helped the Israelites capture Jericho.  You’re like Jezebel right before she was torn asunder by dogs, much like your marriage will be torn asunder by Satan himself. 

Now that you understand a little more about the Baptist section of the Fundagelical Buffet, you can loosen up that Bible Belt, grab your choice of the aforementioned beverages and get to fellowshipping with your brethren and sistren about all the poor souls who are not as sanctified or enlightened.  But don’t enjoy yourself too much.  Church is about anguish and laying (figuratively) prostrate on the altar, waiting to receive atonement.  If you want to have fun, go be a Methodist.  They may smile and clap without repercussion, but we all know where they’re spending eternity.  That’s right, smack dab in the Lake of Fire, y’all.  And no beverage, Baptist or otherwise, will quench your eternal thirst.  Nothing but the (figurative) blood, brought to you by Welch’s. 

Can I get an Amen?

The Dad Makes a New Friend...Sorta

              When Shontyl arrived at school the Monday after The Dad’s arrival, she told everyone, including the excitable Amy, that he was firmly ensconced in her guest bedroom, his enormous recliner wedged beside the bed he will most assuredly not use.  Amy clapped her hands like a back-up singer in a Pentecostal gospel band and said, “I can’t wait to take him out to eat!”

               

                A few days later, Amy told Shontyl that she had stopped by her house when she saw The Dad’s truck in the driveway.  “I thought it would be a great time to stop by and say ‘Hey’ to Odis.  I feel like I know him, from reading the book.”

                The conversation as reported by Amy:

               

                When she arrived, The Dad was sitting on the front porch.  The Dad looked at her, saying nothing.  “Hi!” she said, “I’m Amy.  I work with Shontyl at the Boy’s Ranch.  I wanted to come by and introduce myself.”

                The Dad said, “Who the hell are you?”

                Amy laughed and said, “Oh, you’re so funny.  I loved the book about you.”

                The Dad continued to sit quietly, staring.

                Amy said, “I’d love to take you out to eat sometime so we can talk.  I’ll bet you have lots of stories!”

                The Dad said, “I don’t know you.  I’m not goin’ nowhere with you.”

                Amy laughed and said, “You’re so funny, Odis!  I’ll see you soon.  We’ll plan a dinner at Rooster’s (a local restaurant)!”

                The Dad said, “What the hell?”

                Shontyl was perplexed.  The Dad had said nothing about this interaction.  When she got home that night, she asked him, “Did my friend Amy come by and talk to you?”

                The Dad said, “Is that her name?  Yeah, some woman came by the other day.  She called me Odis.  She was real nice.  She said she wanted to buy me dinner.  Is Rooster’s good?  When are we goin’?”

                He’s an enigma, y’all, wrapped in bacon, sittin’ on the front porch, dreaming of gravy.

I Think I Know What Kind of Kool-Aid I Drink

               The Dad has never been big fan of religion, other than the potluck lunches at whatever Baptist Church we attended.  Trust me when I tell you that every tiny town in the South has at least one, if not multiple options for Southern Baptists, be they Primitive, Friendship or First.  I don’t think he could tell you about any of the denominational peculiarities as he doesn’t follow dogma, much less pageantry; however, the one Baptisty thing he has always adhered to is not drinking alocohol.

                The Dad hasn’t touched a drop of any kind of drink since he and my mother started dating in 1963.  That substantial belly of his is not from beer, dear friends, it is from fried chicken, steak, taters, chocolate ice cream, pork rinds, and the occasional chicken gizzard.  What does this particular redneck drink, you may be thinking?   Well, the answer is (sugar free) Kool-Aid.  There is no other liquid in his diet.  When I told him he should be drinking more water, he asked me, “What do you think Kool-Aid is, JD?  It’s made outta water.  Didn’t they teach you that in college?”

                Suffice it to say, I told my sister she would need to have a ready supply on hand because, to his mind, having only one unopened container is the same as having no container and he will get all wound up until he has the requisite amount.  And when he gets his mind on something, he will not let it go.  He’s like a racoon with a shiny penny, y’all; like a televangelist with a dollar.

                 I spoke to my sister this past weekend and she shared that he had gotten “on her last nerve” on Saturday when she headed into town to run some errands.  Town is Amarillo, Texas, as the only place to buy things in Vega (where she lives) is Dollar General, a fancy boutique and two truck stops.  The Dad asked her to get more Kool-Aid as he only had one container left and he was afraid he would run out.  “Don’t forget,” he said when she left. 

                On the 30-minute drive to Amarillo, The Dad called her to tell her “don’t forget the Kool-Aid”.  She assured him she wouldn’t forget. Less than five minutes after she hung up, he called her again and asked, “Did you just call me?” When she said, “No, I just hung up with you,” he said, “Oh.  Ok.  Well, since you’re on the phone, don’t forget the Kool-Aid.  I like Hawaiian Punch or Grape.”  She replied, “Yes, I know.  It’s on my list.  I won’t forget.”  He hung up.  As a side note, who on earth likes grape Kool-Aid?  It the worst flavor; by far, the worst Jolly Rancher as well. 

                He called her two more times while she was running her errands.  After she had gone to The Wal-Mart and gotten all her items, including both Grape and Fruit Punch flavored Kool-Aid, she was headed home when he called again.  “Sissy,” he said, “Did you get the Kool-Aid?”  She had reached her limit and decided to mess with him, so she said, “Dammit, I forgot.”   He bellowed, “What?  How did you forget it?  You went to The Wal-Mart just to get my Hawaiian Punch Kool-Aid!”

                She said, “Oh, calm down, I got your Kool-Aid, but just so you know, It’s not Hawaiian Punch, it’s Fruit Punch.” 

                “I think I know what kind of Kool-Aid I drink.  It’s Hawaiian Punch.”

                “Hawaiian Punch is a different brand.  You drink Fruit Punch Kool-Aid.”

                Enunciating, like he does when he’s irritated, he said, “I.  Drink.  Hawaiian. Punch.  Kool.  Aid.”

                Always one to help people manage their expectations, she said, “I’m gonna give you a Hawaiian Punch, if you don’t stop bothering me.  I’ll be there in a minute.”

                He very wisely hung up.  He's all about survival, y’all.  True story.

Gladys Kravitz, Lemon Soap and Cast Iron Skillets

              Just as I suspected, The Dad, indeed, informed Shontyl (The Sister) that her cast-iron skillet, or black skillet as it is often referred to in the South, was too small for whatever beast he wanted to roast in the oven along with ‘taters and gravy’.  So off to the skillet store she went.   They have those in Texas, do they not?

                I told her to expect The Dad to be ‘all up in her business’ as he is nosier than a next-door neighbor from a 60s sitcom; like Gladys Kravitz, with more facial hair but about the same level of annoyance for things he finds to be strange, which could be something as mundane as hummus, which he truly in his heart believes is something I invented to be "fancy".

                When we talked later in the week, she told me The Dad had been peppering her with questions about her personal life, anticipated frequency of trips to The Dairy Queen and state of her wardrobe and hairstyle.  When The Dad lived with me, I discovered that the way he looks at the world is frozen in place from around 1989, when he got hurt offshore and was forced to retire.  It took him about a year to ‘remember’ that I was a real adult with a job, home and ability to function independently.  She said they had, that very morning, an odd conversation.

                The Dad, “Why is your hair so straight?”

                Shontyl, “I use a flat iron to straighten it.”

                The Dad, “I like it curlier.  When did you start straightening it?”

                Shontyl, “It’s been years.  You’ve seen it straight, at least every year at Christmas.”

                Incredulous, The Dad said, “Do you think I just fell off the turnip truck?  I remember you had curly hair not too long ago.”

                Shontyl said, “Oh, good lord, Daddy, the last time I curled my hair, I think, was at my wedding.  In 1989.”

                He just stared at her, feeling confident that she was wrong.  This came as no surprise to me, y’all.  I’ve met him before; I am familiar with his work.

                However, she surprised me when the conversation segued to telling me that he had used her fancy, locally-made lemon soap from the one little over-priced boutique in their town, “even though I bought him that giant bar of soap from The Dollar General.” 

                I said, “Well maybe he wanted to be fancy.  I don’t believe all my bougie-ness came from Mother.  I mean, there so much bougie-ness; it has to be from both parents, right?”

                “But he told me he didn’t like the smell of all that lemon-scented lotion you sent me.”  At first, I was as confused as she, but then I remembered how inscrutable he can be.  And he is the master of plausible deniability.  This was a tactic he used with my food that he swore he didn’t like or said was weird, so when it disappeared, he could swear it wasn’t him because “(I) don’t even like that stuff.” 

                I shared the concept with her and told her she needed to hide her fancy things somewhere The Dad couldn’t find or reach.  To be honest, that would be any location more than 6 inches from his outstretched arm, as he cannot bend over, reach up or walk very far.  As long as she doesn’t place the lotion in his hand and then walk away, she should be good to go.   My parting advice was, “Just in case, though, pretend that janky soap you bought him at the Dollar General is fancy.  He’ll be more than happy to use it.”

                She said, “Well, he can keep that lemon soap he already used.  I’m sure not gonna use it after him.  Lord only knows the stories that little bar could tell.”

                Indeed, dear sister.  So many stories, and none fit to ponder or share, y’all.

The Dad is on The Move, Y'all

                The Dad is on the move again, people.  I would have warned those in the states between Ohio and Texas, but he left without much notification, barreling through the Polar Vortex, daring Mother Nature to try and stop him while he made the 16 ½ hour journey only stopping for food and gas.  This time he’s headed to the Texas panhandle to live with my sister and I needed to give her the benefit of my experience with her new roommate.  There is a very particular process for the care and feeding of the Redneck Man.

                When tackling a project of this scope, there are categories of likes and dislikes that are surprisingly specific for a man who will literally take a bite of anything you place in his hand and has been known to wear the same pair of pants for seven days.

                SMELL- He can smell bacon cooking 26 miles away, but cannot smell himself at any point in the say, regardless of level of ripeness.  You need Febreze.  Lots of it.  When you think you've bought more than you should, buy more.  When it gets to the point that people are pointing and laughing at your buggy in The Wal-Mart, buy two more bottles, just in case.  Her GoFundMe website should be up later this week.  I am not kidding.  Fortunately, he has no problem with anyone spraying his chair and, truly, being sprayed himself, unless the scent is Green Apple or Watermelon. 

                FURNITURE – He comes complete with the largest recliner manufactured in America today, a La-Z-Boy.  It will smell, regardless of covering.  His Old Man Smell will penetrate leather, y’all.  He also comes with a power wheelchair, a very fancy reading lamp, a TV and a special chair for Lulu, his Boston Terrier, to sleep in.  I informed the sainted Shontyl that she needs to decide where the chair will be located as that room will then become his bedroom as he sleeps in his recliner and only in his recliner.  Just like his European forefathers, when he plants his chair (instead of a flag) that is where he shall reside, henceforth and forevermore.  

                KITCHEN IMPLEMENTS – He will require a coffee pot; he doesn’t care if it’s fancy or not.  It simply must be able to brew his Folger’s Country Roast every morning.  He will also require a cast iron skillet.  It must be larger than the one you already have.  Regardless of the size of your skillet, it will be too small.  One roughly the size and shape of Oklahoma should suffice.

                FOOD – Fortunately, he will eat anything you put in front of him unless it is spinach, salmon or hummus, which he pronounces as ‘hoo-muss’ and truly believes that is a foodstuff that I invented in my efforts to be fancy.  He will require an extensive amount of red meat or pork, which is plentiful in Texas.  He prefers his steak rare.  Really rare.  And I quote, "Just cut the horns off and knock the 'moo' out."

                TOWN – He prefers a place that is almost not a town.  Somewhere small enough to where people often say, "Is that a real place?"  The boonies is where he wants to be.  He truly loves it when there is an end to a town and then several miles of nothing before the next town starts.  He disliked the Bay Area of California because “town never stopped.”  He was over-joyed to hear that there is just the one main street in Vega, on which sits my sister’s house, a Dairy Queen, a library and a truck stop.  There is a Baptist Church across the street from the Dairy Queen.  Odds are he will not venture there unless they have a potluck on Easter Sunday and even then he'd prefer a to-go plate.

                DOCTOR – He requires a doctor for his myriad ailments and prescriptions.  Fortunately, there is a VA Medical Center in Amarillo, less than 30 minutes down the road.  I may need to give them a heads-up that he’s coming.  They need to prepare.  I informed my sister that she would need to go with him to his first appointment to meet his Primary Care Team and let them know he is an unashamed liar who will only occasionally follow his Dr’s orders because, and I quote, “what do they know?”

                FAMILY –He doesn’t want to see everybody every day, but he wants you close by.  He doesn’t want to go anywhere with you, but he wants to be invited.  He doesn’t want to babysit, but he wants to see the great granddaughters; he now has two.   He is happiest in the boonies with kids and dogs and the occasional cow. 

                It’s going to be interesting to see how this goes.  When he lived with me, it was like Frasier.  Living with my sister will be more like if Uncle Jesse from The Dukes of Hazzard moved in with...well, the closest I can come up with would be Katie Otto from American Housewife.  

              I promise to keep you informed after gathering the pertinent info from my Saturday calls with Shontyl and the Sunday calls with The Dad.

              Somebody should throw up a prayer, or two.  Seriously.