Welp, it’s apparently time to move, time to move on out of the south, back to the civilization we’re used to.
Wednesday evening, Fred and I picked the spud up from her flute lesson and were driving back to the house when she began regaling us with tales of riding her scooter.
"There were these two old women," she said. "And they were on the sidewalk, and I was fixin’ to go down the hill…"
SHE WAS FIXIN’ TO GO DOWN THE HILL.
I’ve dealt with the slight southern accent she’s acquired, and the usage of "put up", as in "I’ll put up the leftovers", when in FACT the leftovers will NOT be put UP, but rather put SIDEWAYS or even DOWN, or – as I prefer it – put AWAY.
"Fixin’ to", I don’t think I can handle, not at all.
After thinking about "fixin’ to" again, I need to go lay down, I think. Well, maybe it’s the yummy greasy Mexican food we had for dinner (we went out! At Fred’s suggestion! Which never happens!). Or maybe that pint of Ben and Jerry’s.
Anyway.
Before I go, I must share another story with y’all.
SEE? Y’ALL??? I SWEAR I WASN’T SAYING THAT BEFORE I BEGAN LIVING IN THE SOUTH!
Yesterday afternoon when Fred got home from work, I was downstairs in front of the computer. I walked over in front of the door, hoping that when he opened the door and saw me standing rightthere it would startle and scare him, and perhaps he’d even let out one of his patented Fred And3rson high-pitched screams o’ terror.
He wasn’t at all startled, just smiled and said "What’re you doing, Bessie?"
I opened my mouth and said "I was trying to kill you. Uh. Scare you."
Talk about your freudian slip!
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