Ejected

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Talking can be so hard some days. Don’t get me started on finishing my sentences. I sure can drive my husband crazy with that one. Yeah, yeah, how unromantic, we don’t finish each other’s sentences. I guess it’s hard to be a mind reader. Why is it so difficult for people to understand what I am saying? I don’t even know what I’m trying to say or I would have already said it. Not half-said it. You do me a “favorite,” as one of my boys would say, and go ahead and finish my thought for me. Is that too much to ask out of a good honest conversation? At least it is an effective way for me to know who is listening when I am talking. As opposed to just awkwardly nodding or saying, “yeah.” The English language can be so challenging, with all of it’s words.

So, I may have said “ejaculated” instead of “ejected.” A few times without realizing it today at work. Seriously. Shut it, Freud. Both words start and end with the same letters. There’s just a few different letters in between. And they have slightly different meanings. Now, I know I am no lawyer, partially because I was deterred from the profession as a child. I never had good come backs on the spot growing up. Oh, if you could have heard the ones I thought of hours later though. They were killer. I would have had the jury convinced. The jury of my younger siblings, that is. My emotions would get fired up and somehow that section of my brain that helps with language would just take a nap or something. Snap out of it. Horrible timing. It would, eventually wake up, just after I was laying in my bed that night replaying the argument. Dang it. That would have been awesome if I would have said that. Maybe. Or maybe I couldn’t really trust my brain after all.

Then, there was that time I tried to tell a sweet girl in Mexico that she could have some crayons. And she started crying. A little slip up in the espanol. After a little translation from my better Spanish-speaking sis, I learned that I told her “I’m  going to take your crayons.” Lo siento mucho, sweet girl. My bad.

Hey, wait. I did help a man from France one time in the airport. An announcement came over the intercom speaker,  “If anyone speaks French, please come to Gate blah, blah.” I wasn’t about to go. Nope. Not happening. All of my teammates began prodding me. I guess I had told one too many of them that I was “fluent” in French. A slight exaggeration, although, I did take four years in high school. Great. My big mouth getting me into trouble again. “Alright. Alright. I’ll go see how I most likely can(not) help the French man.” I head over and the flight attendant needs me to explain to him that his bags will meet him in Nashville. I think I actually translated that, but in hindsight, maybe not. He proceeded to sit next to me, sweating profusely the whole flight, through his white button down shirt, asking me to come to Paris. What? “Merci. Merci….”And telling me he wanted to buy me a lot of presents. I could have killed my teammates as they laughed the whole flight or maybe just listened to the music in their headphones. And I’ve still never gone to Paris to use my French. I heard they don’t even like Americans.

I can’t even remember where I was going with this post. I’m sorry. Lo siento. Je regret. What was I even trying to say? A whole lot of nothing, really. Better luck next time, I guess. Just when  I get talking down, I will probably start tripping up the steps. It’s the talking and the walking at the same time. Mad skills. Now that’s my goal. High hopes.  A girl can dream.

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