Boy, he sure got screwed on that deal, poor bastard. Not that he doesn’t deserve the grief mind you. Dealing with my passive-aggression is small price to pay for stranding me here in The Land of 10,000 Yawns in order to follow his dream. (Cue stirring orchestration.) Whatever the hell that is. It was supposed to be the pursuit of some sort of a PhD (I think?) but somewhere along the line, has devolved into “The Professor” walking around the front yard barefoot in his Junior Samples overalls and no underwear (on humid days), while yelling at the Jeep for some imagined slight, as if needing new spark plugs was some conspiratorial personal affront thought up by Chrysler for the sole purpose of messing with his head. Which is nuts. Because that’s my job.
Hey, don’t misunderstand. The college thing is fine. Great, in fact. I always wanted to be married to a college professor. Ever since college, when I figured it would be the easiest way to that Golden Ticket of a Humanities degree. But really, I was thinking more along the lines of a “turn key ready-to-move-in” kind of model, not some “new construction through the winter” kind of deal.
So, while the Other Half is off pursuing Yet Another Degree©, I am left to deal with the Good People of Lancaster. And no, I swear to Jesus Christ above, never, even if it means subverting my imminent and untimely demise, will I ever employ the enunciation of “LenKester.” Or whatever the bejesus it is that the locals drawl. Don’t know. Don’t friggin’ care. (I must reluctantly include John in this category. It seems you can take the bumpkin out of Maryland, but you can’t take Maryland out of the bumpkin. Or something redundantly profound like that. Whatever. At the end of the day, I’m still married to a hick. Dammit. At least we don’t have any biological offspring that inherited those yokel genes.)
Anyway, the townies around here will correct you without fail if you don’t mispronounce place names in the correct/incorrect manner they see fit.
“Y’all don’t sound like yeh from ’round hyah.”
You think?? Well, thank you, Jesus! Whew.
Look, I’m from New Jersey. You know, the real world? And while the people there are also quite guilty of adding their own colorful spin to area names, like “Ruderferd” or “SEEkawkuss” (Look ’em up. What? Is your Google broken?), it never occurs to anyone to mock Outlanders for saying those words correctly. Psst. See, we’re wrong. We know it. You’re right. We know it. And we don’t give a shit. Let’s all just go have some cappuccino, and never speak of this again. Such a beautiful world is Bergen County.)
Actually, the only thing that has sort of kept me from going completely off the deep end is the Super Wal-Mart that opened a few months ago in the center of town, over the intense protest of the Podunk NIMBees and the Knee Jerk Liberals in the area. To me, at least it’s an island of normalcy among a vast Dead Sea of “quaint” aka boring bucolic crap that I am forced to deal with regularly. (Even though they do sell hay and bags of manure, I’ve decided to deal.)
Oh, by the way, John refuses to shop there “on principle” because of “what Wal-Mart represents and how it exploits its vulnerable workers.” That is, until they have a crazy-ass sale on those little Marie Callandar cream pies. Then he’s all, “Well, we do have to support the minimum wage worker, I suppose. They have families to feed.”
You tell ’em, Chavez!
It’s amazing how quickly deep moral conviction flies out the proverbial window in the face of puff pastry.