Separated by a Common Language

          The English have long been considered somewhat prudish, yet it is Americans who in panic blip out mild expletives on TV shows, make endless apologies for wardrobe malfunctions and oh so quaintly go to ‘the bathroom.’

          As a young woman in Australia, the first time I heard this odd phrase coming from the mouth of an American visitor,  I thought the woman requesting the use of ‘the bathroom’ wanted to take a shower or, at the very least, scrub her hands.  Since we were in the middle of a PTA meeting at the time, I realized her need was far more basic.  When later the same woman stopped the meeting to allow her little doggie to go outside ‘to use the bathroom,’ it was all I could do not to burst out laughing.  How very precious it all sounded.

          But it did get me thinking about the way two countries, with the same language, can be so many miles apart in the construction of sentences and the use of particular words.  Let alone the spelling of those very same words.

Australian English, and/or the Australian accent, is actually called Strine.  It is full of maddeningly shortened words and wild colloquialisms.  Many have said Strine came about when Aussies developed a highly efficient way of getting their sentences out while barely opening their mouths thus precluding the high density of local flies from getting into the open cavity.   I have no reason to think otherwise and, as a result, have to acknowledge that an American listening to two Aussies chatting might wonder just when did English become a foreign language?

Sentences like:  ‘she hoofed it to the servo because her spare had gone down the gurgler’ or ‘she was really upset, she chucked a wobbly right in the middle of the shopping center,’ would certainly produced confused looks from anyone not used to the Aussie vernacular.  How about, ‘he nearly lost the plot when his footie team came in last.’  Or, ‘having tried to make sense of the conversation, she finally decided to spit the dummy and returned home.’

          The garbo picks up the trash once a week; the avos are ripe and ready for a lovely salad; if you’d like a beverage to go with that salad, whip over to the bottle-o for some cold tinnies and, if you’re a young person and have matriculated high school, you might choose to attend Uni.

Makes my head want to explode or at least spin.

          Additionally, and possibly to avoid the above mentioned flies, Aussies, unlike their US counterparts, also avoid being redundant in their sentence structure.  Things do not fall ‘off of’ a shelf, table or other furniture.  In Australia they just ‘fall off.’ And, it should be pointed out that people in Oz ‘lie’ down to take a nap.  They leave the ‘laying’ to the chooks in the backyard.

          But, whether Aussies are ordering take-out from the local Chew and Spew or cutting up those avos for their salads to eat at home, they all use a toilet or a lavatory.  The bathroom is where the tub and shower are located.

Perception: in the eyes of the beholder?

         

          Recently I received one of those ‘forwarded to thousands’ supposedly hysterically funny emails.  Except in this case it actually was funny.  It was also sad and mind bogglingly frustrating because it purported to be true.

          The contents of the email were said to be the questions of would-be visitors to Australia with the answers provided by the Australian Tourism Authority.  The questions came from as far north as Sweden and the United Kingdom and as far east as the USA.  All left me speechless.

          Admittedly I laughed.  The way one does when a question is a little embarrassing and you’re not sure if the question is actually a serious one or someone poking fun.  But then I started thinking about the lack of plain common sense from the inquirers.  Or is it lack of education?  These days does anyone planning a trip outside their own country actually look at an atlas?

          One questioner asked if it was possible to walk from Perth, on the west coast, to Sydney on the east coast, by following the railway line.  A quick glance at a map would have shown that distance was about the same as the distance from Tallahassie, Florida to San Diego, California.  Quite a lovely little stroll!  ‘Just take plenty of water with you,’ advised the Tourism office.

          Surely today, with the internet at everyone’s fingertips, a rudimentary search for information on any country on the planet is just a few clicks away.  On the other hand, a look at the size of a country, establishing that there are real cities with tall buildings dotted along the horizon isn’t going to help with questions like these:  ‘Is English spoken in Australia?’ and ‘Should I bring my own cutlery?’

          Hmmm.  The question of English could be tricky.   Aussies do seem to have a language of their own.  One which bears only a slight resemblance to English as spoken by the English.  As spoken by Americans…well…that’s a whole different blog for another day.

          The use of cutlery however should be addressed here.  Do people planning a visit to Oz (that’s what Australians call their country) really think that because Australia is at the bottom of a spinning globe, it’s a nation of vegan/vegetarian hunters and gatherers?  People who still eat with their fingers?  Apparently so.

          So it all boils down to perception.  Unfortunately for most would-be travelers to Oz, from all parts of the planet, that perception seems to have stopped expanding somewhere between kindergarten and elementary school.  Many of the enquiries concerned countries other than Australia, although they did all start with the letter ‘A.’  Let me help with the following:

          Africa – where Tarzan swings from the trees;

          Austria – where the Von Trapp family are still yodeling in the Alps;

          America – where the streets are paved with gold; and

          Australia – where kangaroos can be seen hopping down the main street.  How many you see will depend on how much you’ve been drinking.

          The final question which is important to get right was:  ‘which direction is north in Australia?’  Tell you what, you crazy globetrotters you, once you land on Aussie soil, turn 180 degrees and then ask for further instructions.

         

Surgery Instructions

            Since the beginning of the year many of my friends and relatives have either undergone surgery, are recovering from surgery, or are looking forward to surgery.  Well, probably not actually looking forward to it as much as hoping and praying for it to be over and done and themselves returned to the happy, healthy creatures they once were.

          And that got me remembering.  I do a lot of that lately.  I think it has something to do with my advancing years.  If you can’t do it anymore, its fun remembering when you could.  But I, as usual digress.

          Back in those good old days, I used to do quite a bit of runway modeling.  Usually I was booked for sportswear or swimsuit parades in stores and occasionally for bigger affairs like Fashion Week today.  Understandably it was pretty much seasonal work but it did bring in a few extra bikkies to top up the family coffers.

          At the beginning of one such season I had begun to experience severe pain under my left should blade.  So much so that the only way to alleviate the pain was to lie flat on my back for several minutes until the pain passed.  I was then good for as long as it took to change into my next swimsuit, do my strut down the runway and get back to the dressing room, at which time I again flung myself onto the floor.

I should explain here that the reason I did runway modeling and not photographic stuff (which incidentally paid a heck of a lot more), was because I was totally unphotogenic.  Still am come to think of it.

You’ve heard the expression ‘the camera loves her?’  Well, it hated me.   My saving grace was that I did move beautifully down a runway and could show off any garment to perfection.

          Anyway, after several weeks of bobbing up and down like a lavatory seat in dressing rooms across the country, and with the pain getting worse with each day I finally consulted a doctor.

          I was diagnosed with a cyst on one of my ovaries.  The fact the pain was nowhere near my ovary was called referred pain and apparently was quite common.  Surgery to remove the cyst was required and I was duly booked into the hospital for the procedure.

          A few days later, lying in my hospital bed an hour before my scheduled surgery, I was going into sleepy glow mode because of the just administered pre-med, when it suddenly hit me.  Where was the surgeon gong to cut me?

          If I didn’t have a photogenic face, the only thing I did have was a photogenic body.  I didn’t want my only asset ruined by a visible scar.

          Half asleep, I fumbled in the bedside table drawer for my make-up bag and extracted a soft black eyeliner pencil.  Raising my nightgown, I wrote – upside down – on my stomach, these immortal words:  ‘Please cut below this line,’ with an arrow pointing down to my bikini line.  I covered myself with the bed sheet and gave way to sleep.

          Afterwards, I vaguely recall giggling nurses poking their heads into my room, pointing at me and whispering behind their hands.  Apparently my message to my surgeon had spread through the hospital.

          And my surgeon, bless his little cotton socks, had acquiesced.  My scar was so low, and incidentally so tiny, that I needed glasses to see it.  I was told later that my encounter with the surgeon’s knife was published in the AMA Journal. 

          But, possibly the lesson in all this is…speak openly to your surgeon before any procedure or, at the very least, have a sharpened, soft black pencil within easy reach.

         

         

         

Casting Call for Klutzes

          Apparently there are people today who have no concept of volume.  They will wildly pour a gallon of water into a teacup and wonder why there is water dripping onto the table.  The same sad group, for surely they must be the same group, think that jamming a big wallet into a small purse will somehow expand the latter into the size required without bursting its seams.  Maybe they are also the group who can be knocked to the floor with no more effort than a slight push unless they’re wearing a twenty dollar bracelet which has qualities that somehow give them the strength to withstand a tornado while standing on one leg.

          Why is it that marketing people think consumers are such ningnongs that unless a TV ad is completely over the top, we poor fools won’t get the message?  Is ramming stupidity down our throats really a great marketing tool?

          I can visualize a couple of TV producers and the marketing genius for a new customer sitting around a table ready to see the results of their casting call.   It could be for a water globe, an aluminum wallet, a magical bracelet or any one of a hundred different items; the product really doesn’t matter as long as the actors can be made to look like klutzes’ and are desperate for a job.

          ‘Now, I want you to hug ten pots and pans to your chest, a spatula between your teeth and a spoon in your hand,’ the TV guy instructs.  ‘I want you to look frustrated as you try to put them on the kitchen workbench.’

          Really?  Should the actor then also look like a twit because she couldn’t figure out that clutching all of her kitchen utensils to her body at one time was probably not the smartest way to pick out the most useful one to drain her spaghetti?

           And how about the guy with the horribly bent-out-of-shape credit card because he didn’t have an aluminum wallet?  How did that happen?  The last time I tried to dispose of a credit card I practically had to use an electric saw.  But this poor schnook apparently just sat on his.  So how big was his bum?

          I understand that TV ads are meant to be bigger, louder and sometimes even crazier than real life.  After all, they are supposed to grab our attention and make us salivate for the product advertised.  But couldn’t the marketers also consider the fact that viewers, therefore potential buyers, don’t want to be treated as idiots?

          Telling me that my eggs can line up looking like little bald heads if I use some cute plastic containers to cook them in is one thing.  Watching a woman unable to peel an egg without tearing the shell to pieces and ending up with something resembling a dog’s dinner is quite another.

          Those marketing hotshots might also want to take a closer look at the finished TV ads to ensure the scripted dialogue actually goes with the visual.  There is something a little upsetting with a middle-aged woman, sweat sitting on her top lip like a wet moustache, panting from exertion, saying: 

          ‘I lifted it and moved it all by myself.’

          And then what?  Was she rushed off to the hospital for hernia surgery?  She certainly looked like she was ready to drop.

          I know there are numerous actors who look on TV commercials as simply a job.  A paycheck in these hard economic times.  But come on TV producers and advertising bigwigs, they’ll never move on to bigger and better things while you guys are asking them to look like the greatest klutz’s on earth.  All the time asking us, your customers, to accept that people really are as inept and dopey as you make them out to be.

          For an actor, having to accept work of this nature must be quite humiliating. There is little to get excited about when an actor’s resumé includes the words ‘As Seen on TV.’

         

           

         

           

         

Americans Drop Their G's

          Perhaps because I didn’t start learning English until I was seven years old, I was always very conscious of the pronunciation of words.   It was months before I was brave enough to even open my mouth to speak and then only very hesitantly, waiting for someone to point out how dumb my heavy accent sounded. 

          My early years in an English speaking school changed from horrific to not so bad as I began to adjust to this very strange language that made no sense at all.  I can vividly remember turning a gorgeous beetroot red when I discovered that the shop across the road from the school that I referred to again and again as a chemist, with a soft ‘ch’ as in cheese, was nothing of the kind.

          By the time my English language skills were good enough to understand what teachers were trying to instill in our eight and nine year old brains, I had fallen in love with words.  Books were a source of wonder and I devoured them as though they were my lunch.

          One of my English teachers was a little white haired lady called Miss Dunn.  I think she was probably one of those picture perfect teachers you read about or see in movies.  She’d never married nor had children because to her, we were all the children and family she wanted.

          Miss Dunn was barely an inch over five feet and always very neatly dressed.  She usually wore a pleated, plaid skirt topped with a soft blue twinset.  A string of pearls was her only jewelry.  

          It is because of Miss Dunn that I became such a stickler for the way words are pronounced.  She would stand at the blackboard at the front of the class, and with a flourish write out a word – for instance – ‘feeling,’ and then very firmly underline the ‘ing’.  She did this with every word that ended in ‘ing’, all the time very loudly emphasizing, ‘Remember children, the word ends with i-n-g.  It does not end with i-n.  I want to hear the i-n-g!’

          ‘What do I want to hear?’

          ‘I-n-g, Miss.’

          ‘That’s right, and don’t forget it please.’

          If in fact we did forget it as children so often do, Miss Dunn would stand with her hand up to her ear and a puzzled look on her face.

          ‘Did I hear a word that ended in i-n-g or was it a word that doesn’t belong in the English language?’  That usually produced instant recall on our part and a happy smile on the face of Miss Dunn.

          Many years later I emigrated to the United States, a country I had read about and, of course, seen so much of in movies.  I was looking forward to being a part of this terrific (for me) new country.  There was going to be so much to see and do – including TV shows that I had heard about but hadn’t seen in Australia.

          And so it was that after only a few days in the USA, with childlike glee, I settled in front of the TV to watch my first American newscast.  But then the horror struck me.  It wasn’t the taped TV shows that had me gasping and glancing over my shoulder to see if Miss Dunn would magically materialize with cupped ear.  It was the live broadcasts; the morning newscasters, the commentators and the various announcers.  Was I hearing things?  Was Katie Couric really dropping her g’s?  Indeed yes…and in a very short interview to boot!  Matt Lauer wasn’t much better with his captive interviewee.  The young lady had apparently been singin’ since she was ten.

          I switched channels hoping this ‘g’ dropping was limited to NBC newcasters but alas no.  The pundits on CBS and ABC were just as bad.  ‘G’s were being dropped like peas from a broken pod.

          Now, as I read my grandkids emails and FB entries…most of which consist of random letters of the alphabet instead of actual words, I wonder if the beginning of all this incomprehensible muttering was when Americans started dropping their ‘g’s?