Friday, August 5, 2011

A Bachelor's In Baby Talk

Morning Readers,

     Back when I was a young college pup, I used to play a little game called "Wait Till the Very Last Second To Do a Project". Dangerous, but fun, this game usually found me doing things like Googling random facts in the library, scratching down some notes, and charging, in my pajamas, up three flights of stairs, screeching to halt in front of the class, and pulling off what my teacher said was "An extremely thoughtful take on Gabriel Garcia Marquez's short story, complete with satisfactory elaboration on symbolism." Still achieving most important things in my pajamas, I've always thought of myself as fairly eloquent and off-the-cuff. But, that was before I found the sippy cup.

     Having put Butch and Sundance down for a nap, and unpacked the groceries, I headed back to the car to gather some odds and ends. Phone, wallet..."Now if I can just find the- " I poked around the car seats and saw it. "There's the cuppy."    

     But, I'd said it. Out myself.  For a moment, I stood perfectly still, flashbacks of the movie Nell washing over me like gentle waves - visions of Liam Neeson watching Jodie Foster sway around whispering, 

"Trouble go away at nigh', an' Nell caw Mi'i - an' Nell an' Mi'i - ye', Nell an' Mi'i - like t'ee in the way!" 

     As much as I hate admitting it, I'm a grown woman, and grown women don't say "cuppy", especially not grown women who have English degrees, watch Jeopardy and spent a good part of their childhood reading the dictionary... for fun.
     It really shouldn't have caught me off guard that badly. After all, ten out of twenty-four hours of my day thrive on "baby talk".

ie - "Honey, would you like a Cook Cook?" (Cookie), "Who's da cutest little squish? Is da oo?", "Time for night nights. Good nights me bebes. Mama luvs ooo."

     I have a value pack of paper towels for those of you who just threw-up on themselves a little bit. Fact of the matter, mothers do that stuff. Trouble is, now that I've slipped and "baby talked" to myself, how long before I do it in public? 

Waiter: Mam, what can I get you to drink?    
Me: Cho'cate milky, peese...*coughs*.. I mean, whiskey. Straight up.

Cashier: Here's your receipt, mam. You saved five cents, today.      
Me: Ohh, it's crumply wumply, idnt it?

Receptionist: You owe two-hundred dollars for the last doctor's visit.
Me: He's a crooky wooky, yes he is. Who's brokey-wokey? Who is? Who is?'s me!

     You can clearly see why I'm a little hesitant to interact with society. Leaving the house could potentially mean returning home, empty handed, on the grounds that post offices don't sell "stampies" and the Econolube guy didn't know what the heck I meant when I pointed to my car and said "Stinky changy-wangy?"
      Butch and Sundance are only my first two children. If I get anymore, how am I ever supposed to communicate with society? By the third or fourth, will I simply flail my arms to signal what I want, grunting and pointing at perfect strangers like a lame Seaworld porpoise? Or perhaps I'll be scribbling my grocery lists in the form of neat, crayon dioramas.

No, no, Dear, the rectangle means cereal. The square means I need more crayons...

Until Next Time, Readers!