After a day in New York City seeing Stomp and eating pizza cut into foldable triangles the way it is supposed to be, my daughter and I found ourselves in yet another bathroom. That’s what we do. Before the train, after the train, before the show, after the show, before the train. We were back in Penn Station which sits neatly under Madison Square Garden. The Bulls were playing whatever team the Bulls would play there, but being from Chicago — that was fun part even though we weren’t going to the game.
We waited in line, as women do, behind weary travelers and exhilarated shoppers as well as some women in big hats and long poofy dresses whom we decided were carollers or from a early 19th century religious sect. After the “next” lady (the lady in the public bathroom who screams NEXT when a stall becomes available) gave us our cue, we used the bathroom and then proceeded to the sinks in tandem to wash our hands.
“No wooder comes out of this one,” I said to my dawter.
“No whaaat?” she said as she stared at me.
My kids enjoy endless evenings of fun teasing me about my non-existent accent. I am now proudly generically East Coast, a undefinable yet regional speaker identified only by the occasional mention of an oft-mispronounced fruit — the are-enge — or the part of your head above your eyebrows — your farhead. (As opposed to your near-head, I know, I’ve heard them all).
“Oh my GAWD,” I said. “I said WOODER!”
“Yes, you did,” she laughed, making notes for her next round of teasing.
I shook my head as I reached my hands below the spigot of her sink. Then I shook those off as well.
“I’m owt East for 24 ow-ers and that’s what happens,” I said in defeat.
She kept giggling and walked toward the door.
“Yo,” I said. “Dry yer hans.”
I shrugged my shoulders and added, “I tawked like this for a lawng time.”
She gave me the “cut it out” 12 year old eyebrow raise. She meant business.
“You’re the one who tawks funny around here,” I reminded her. “I fit in.”
We both laughed and chalked it up to soft pretzels with mustard, Butterscotch Krimpets (which, to the true connesseuir, bear no resemblance to Twinkies) and cheesesteaks.
Or, I admitted to myself, maybe it’s just something in the wooder.
