Child's talk

Every now and then I come across some phrase or sentence in my work that amuses me. It is usually something no one else would be amused by, including the authors who wrote it.

For instance, right now I’m editing a college textbook on how to teach reading. The authors talk about evaluating a child’s use of language by using something called the MLU, or "Mighty Louisiana Underwear." No, really, MLU stands for "Mean Length of Utterance." The idea behind this is that the higher the child’s MLU, the more words he is using in a sentence, hence the more complex his sentences and the higher his chances of getting into an Ivy League school and becoming a politician someday, where his excess verbiage would be especially useful. (Unless, of course, the child’s MLU is artificially inflated by the constant use of the word “like,” as in “Like, so, do you, like, wanna, like, play, like?” This may result in a negative MLU, something no would-be politician wants in his past. The press would have a field day.)

But back to the book I am editing. The authors give examples of two children’s sentences:

Child A: I wanna play. I’m not hungry. See you ‘morrow, bye. (MLU = 4.0)

Child B: I wanted to play because I am not hungry. I will see you tomorrow. (MLU = 7.5)

Child A, obviously, is the weaker of the two verbally, although the sentence is at least free of “likes.”

Child B, just as obviously, does not live on any planet known to man.

Sometimes I wonder, as I am editing books written by professors and such, just how long it has been since they have seen an actual child. Other than while glancing out the window as they are writing, of course. What child talks like that?

Maybe a child whose parents are bent on getting him or her into Harvard or Yale. "Now, Humphrey, dear, do remember not to use contractions. Your MLU will be so much higher without them. Besides, it makes you sound so...common."

"Of course, Mother, I always endeavor to please you and Father, particularly after all the sacrifices you have made for me, and I would never do anything to bring shame upon your good name." (MLU = 35)

So if you have aspirations of getting your child into the best colleges, forget the SAT and ACT. What matters is the MLU. Making the acquaintance of a professor-author probably wouldn't hurt, either. Maybe he could feature your child in his next book.

This is a test

Today we are going to have a little test. I know, you didn't have time to study and you hate pop quizzes, but this test is on something you've no doubt been doing all your life, so you should ace it. Heh heh, right.

Oops, sorry there.

Here's the test: If you were to say the words Mary, merry, and marry all in one sentence -- and of course you would never have occasion to do such a thing, but remember this is a test, and tests never have any basis in real life -- such as

"Mary was merry at the thought that she would soon marry John"

would you pronounce Mary, Merry, and marry all the same?

If you answered yes, you are obviously a hick, for the dictionary proclaims that the a or e in the first syllable of these three words is pronounced differently.

For the first time in my life, I can say that I am a hick. Yes, I say all those three words the same. My sentence would sound like this:

"Mary was Mary at the thought that she would soon Mary John."

I was much astonished to know that I was saying at least two of these three wrong, for everyone I know, even Baxter the Best Dog in the World who lives down the street, pronounces them the same. Perhaps native New Yorkers tend to make the a in marry a little nasally, as they tend to say everything nasally, but that's about it.

And merry -- get this -- is supposed to have the same sound as get. If you try to do that, it comes out sounding like a little kid who says "w" for "r."

It makes you wonder what else you have been saying wrong all your life. At least it made me wonder. Perhaps such things don't keep you up at night. I, however, have taken to carrying the American Heritage College Dictionary everywhere with me (and not the pocket edition), just to be sure I am saying correctly words that I have been saying all my life, such as my own name.

Fortunately, it's in the dictionary, just the way I've always said it.

Slightly Humorous reaches 100!

Attention readers, faithful and otherwise:

Today marks the 100th entry in this blog! (Please be sure to read today's story below, which is actually the 100th). I know what some of you are probably thinking: "She didn't have anything to say after the 25th posting, now what is she going to do?"

But for those of you who are not thinking that, please help me celebrate! A trip to Tahiti comes to mind, but according to the latest personal accounting statistics, that is not in the budget.

So we will celebrate in a low-budget fashion. Do you have a favorite blog entry? Tell us! Let us know what kinds of things you have found funny and why. It helps me to know what makes an impact on others.

On this special occasion I want to thank my faithful readers and commenters -- Loves to Laugh, Cissy, Nosy Neighbor, and of course Lowlyworm, without whom this blog would not exist, or if it did would certainly be less interesting (the dialogue, in particular...you don't really want to hear what I say to myself). You guys keep me going! I also wish to thank my family, my community, my pet beetles...ha! Got a little carried away there.

I also want to encourage you other, silent readers to speak up! I know you're there. And if you have commented on this blog and have never revealed your identity to me, this would be a good time to extend that courtesy. I promise no harm will come to you (heh, heh).

So, weigh in with your opinions, and remember, the best is yet to come! (We can only hope, anyway.)

Good cat, bad cat

I read an article yesterday about Oscar, a cat who resides in a nursing home (the shelters around here are getting very creative with their placements) as a pet for the residents. Seems Oscar has a rather unusual talent: He predicts when the residents are going to die.

Oscar will go into a room, curl up beside a resident, and voila -- within four hours the nursing staff finds that the person has passed away. This has happened 25 times in the two years Oscar has been in residence. And Oscar has never been wrong. About the person dying, I mean. I'm sure he is wrong about plenty of other things.

The staff is not sure how Oscar knows people are not long for this world. They speculate that he senses some odor on them, or possibly he is picking up signals from the staff ("Red alert! Red alert!" might be one). But for sure, they believe that Oscar somehow recognizes that people are going to die and goes in to comfort them in their last moments.

Which is all well and good, if that's what's happening. But I have to wonder. Wouldn't you, as a director of this facility, be just a little bit worried when a stray cat lies down with 25 patients and within just a few hours they are gone?

The staff is very much in awe of Oscar's sensitivities and has even taken to calling residents' families when they notice Oscar in a resident's bed. Can you imagine that call? "Um, Mrs. Rosenblatt, you might want to come down here within the next 3.3 hours, as our cat is in bed with your mother...well, no, your mother seems just fine, but no one lives very long after the cat sleeps with them."

If I were Mrs. Rosenblatt, I'd come, all right. I'd come and get my mother OUT of that place.

Because maybe Oscar is not as benign as everyone seems to think.

Maybe he is passing along some disease to these poor elderly people.

Maybe they are allergic to cats.

Maybe these people had something Oscar badly wanted, like catnip.

Or maybe Oscar is secretly working for someone who preys on older people for their money, and that someone attaches some deadly instrument of death to Oscar that transfers itself to the intended victim a few hours after he makes his visit. Oscar probably receives a kickback for his services, like more catnip, or extra petting.

Or maybe I am just watching too much Monk.

"If I ever go into a nursing home," I told Joe firmly, "make sure it is cat-free."

Big things in little spaces, or vice versa

I am not well known for having a great spatial sense. I always did terrible on those tests you take in school where you have to imagine what a flat shape would look like all folded up, or vice versa. By the way, whoever made up those problems must have been interesting to live with. I imagine them going around their house, looking for boxes they could tear apart, draw for the test questions, and put back together again at the insistence of their spouse, who like me probably always did poorly on those tests.

Thankfully these annoying shapes and boxes have no practical application in my everyday life, although I do have trouble judging volume -- for instance, fitting clothes into a suitcase of suitable proportions, as my husband would no doubt heartily agree with. And our refrigerator tends to be overfull at any given time, due not to large amounts of food but to enormous leftover containers, each of which contains roughly a teaspoon of food because I cannot properly judge container size.

But I defy anyone who DOES have a good sense of space to follow the directions I encountered in a recipe the other day. It said to julienne a red pepper, which I know as well as anyone means to cut into thin strips with an impossibly sharp knife, preferably without also chopping off one's finger. And so I did. I even managed to get reasonably even strips, which is not always the case when I'm distracted by the thought of my finger getting the chop in an unguarded moment.

I looked at the recipe to see how much of the pepper I was supposed to use. Instead of saying "one red pepper" or "half a red pepper" or something equally sensible, it said "1/2 cup." I looked again. No, actually it said "1/4 cup."

1/4 cup of 5-inch-long, thin strips? How on earth does one fit 5-inch-long, thin strips of pepper into a round cup approximately 2 inches across? This must be what they mean by imaginary math.

Was I supposed to stand them on end and see how many I could fit in the cup? Or maybe squish them all into the cup, in the act breaking them so they were no longer julienned?

This conundrum so paralyzed me that I was unable to continue with the recipe for quite a while (not unlike my reaction to math and science in school). In the end, I opted for a completely scientific, mathematical solution: I called my husband. No, just kidding. I grabbed a handful of pepper strips and threw them in the pan.

The remaining peppers, I judged, would fit very nicely in my mouth for a snack later on.

The hidden role of insurance

I have discovered how babies come about, and it has nothing to do with the birds and the bees. It has everything to do with the insurance companies' coverage of birth control.

I called my doctor's office the other day for a refill, and the kind woman on the other end of the line noted that I was due for my annual exam in a month. She said my insurance wouldn't approve a refill until I had seen my doctor.

"But I can't make a visit until after it's been one year, right?" I said. "I mean, insurance won't cover an annual unless it's been exactly or more than a year since the last annual." Kind of like how you can't go to the dentist a single day earlier than six months after your last cleaning visit.

She acknowledged that that was correct.

"So what you're saying," I went on, trying to wrap my head around this thing, "is that the insurance company won't cover my pills until I see the doctor, but they won't cover my doctor visit until after Aug. 19th. At which point I will have been out of pills for -- let's see -- 21 days."

"Actually, it will be a little big longer than that," the woman said apologetically. "The doctor doesn't have any available openings until Sept. 7th."

The insurance companies must be in some kind of conspiracy to raise the national birth rate, I thought. Or in cahoots with OB/GYNs to raise their patient loads.

Fortunately, the woman was very sympathetic. She had probably seen her share of insurance-induced pregnancies. "I'll call your insurance company and beg them to authorize enough to get you through to your visit," she said generously, then more sternly, "But you HAVE to come in, or..."

"I know, I know," I said. "I have to come in, or the insurance company will hold my pills hostage."

"See you on the 7th," she said.

Are you awake yet?

Joe awakens, on purpose, at an hour when only thieves and garbage men are about. Before he is even out of bed, he is speaking in full, coherent sentences. Every morning he cheerfully inquires about my night: "How'd you sleep, hon?"

And every morning I answer, with some resentment, "Mffmfm," which roughly translates into "How do you know I'm done?"

Having to get up when you're still sleepy is bad enough, but dealing with a Perky Morning Person is enough to put one over the edge. If Joe were the eighth dwarf, he would be Cheerful. And I would be Cranky, at least for the first few hours of the day and whenever I am hungry.

One morning while he was working on his computer, he declared, "Isn't it amazing how clear your thinking is first thing in the morning?"

I looked around our study. "Are you talking to me?" I asked.

"You mean yours isn't?" he said with some surprise.

"Not unless by 'first thing in the morning' you mean 11 a.m."

He shook his head in obvious sympathy that my mental faculties were so slow to be pressed into service.

A certain member of my family is also a Perky Morning Person, and she always took great delight in tormenting me in the mornings when we both lived at home years ago. She told jokes. She sang cheery songs that she had learned at girls' camp, guaranteed to make one hop of out her bunk in the morning ("Good morning to you, you look kind of drowsy, in fact you look lousy"). A natural morning-hater, I came to really dread mornings.

One day I decided something needed to be done about this situation. And so I turned to the repository of wisdom through the ages, the dictionary. No, not the dictionary! The Bible. It has the solution to our every need, and boy was I in need of solutions.

Hmmm, I thought as I flipped through it. "Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn"? No... "A bekah for every man, that is, half a shekel , after the shekel of the sanctuary...." Not much help there. "The lips of a strange woman are as an honeycomb..." Not quite. "Sorrow is better than mirth"? Hmm, we were getting closer.

AH! There it was, in Proverbs 27:14. "He [or she, I translated] that blesseth his friend [or sister] with a loud voice, rising early in the morning, it shall be counted a curse to him [or her]."

I tried it out on her one morning when my cup had runneth over with her cheeriness. She stared at me.

"What?...No, you made that up," she said, but she sounded unsure. With more glee than I had ever demonstrated before noon, I showed her the verse in the Bible.

"Solomon was the wisest person who ever lived," I reminder her, "and that's what he thought about Perky Morning Persons."

She was stunned. I kept the Bible open to the verse and displayed it, prominently, where she could see it every morning as a divine reminder. I never heard another cheerful morning song or joke from her.

Fortunately, at the time neither of us knew that this verse probably refers to someone taking advantage of someone, perhaps in a financial way. But even in that case, I am sure that the punishment involved would be far more lenient for someone who took such advantage at, say, 4 in the afternoon.

And just as fortunately for me, my sister did not happen to notice a little verse a few pages over that said, "How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard?"