Racist Scottish Lady

Some of you are so excited about Racist Scottish Lady that I’m not sure I can make this little story amusing enough to live up to the hype. But I’ll try. It may involve some embellishment. Hopefully you can imagine the hilarious awfulness of it despite my inability to reproduce it well.

So, I was sitting in the airport with my laptop at 2:00 in the morning when a middle-aged lady came up and plopped down in the seat across from me with her bags. She looked a little peeved.

(Now, bear with me because accents aren’t my thing, but this story is very hard to make amusing without at least attempting to reproduce her accent; and this is hard because it was so thick I had trouble understanding her at times. It was also really lovely; I could listen to her recite the phone book.)

Her: Marnin’ to yeh!
Me: Hi.
Her: Whatcha doon hur a’ this arr?
Me: Oh, my flight got cancelled. I’m here till 7:30 this morning.
Her: Ooh, ain’ tha’ soom bad look!
Me: Yeah, the wind here was terrible earlier, and it was snowing. There was also some lightning.
Her: Ooh, ay’m gla’ I goot in winnah did. Joost came frum NooOhlahns [New Orleans, and somehow she made it into one very musical syllable].
Me: Oh, cool! I’ve always wanted to visit there. Did you enjoy it?
Her: Noo, I came back two week earleigh! Tha’ whool toon, goon to roobish.
Me: Really. I know a lot of the historical areas were destroyed by the hurricane…
Her: Noo, it ain’ joost the old areas. It’s evrwher! Sooch a sad toon nagh.
Me: That’s too bad.
Her: Aye, I tell ya, it’s thoos blacks.
Me: Excuse me?
Her: Aye, I nivvah seen sooch a lot o’ booskers, thoos blacks. Lazy, lazy, lazy, the whool lot o’ them.
Me: Ooh.
Yes, I know I could have done better here, but it was two in the morning, and the incongruity between that musical voice and the actual meaning of the words had me dumbstruck.
Her: Soo sad. It’s bean six yeeas! The streets, filthy, the buildins, foolin’ doon, and ool tha’ people, sittin’ aroon’, waitin’ for handoots. I tell ya’.
Me: …
Her: Soo, tell me, dear, do ya’ noo where tha’ wee girls’ room is? Imma goon for a pee, then I need a fog [= fag = cigarette; that one took me a while]. Bye nah!

The conversation was much longer than that. But it’s hard work trying to reproduce her accent, and I’m lazy.

So. I hardly ever write anymore! As if you didn’t notice! I’m going to stop apologizing for it, but I think I’ll explain a little bit.

Normally if I don’t post frequently for a while, it’s because I’m stressed out, or sad, or sleep deprived. Turns out I don’t post much when I’m ridiculously happy, either. Huh.

Seriously, folks, I haven’t felt this good in year. Yes, you read that right. Probably since before Grace was born, maybe even earlier. I was bouncing around the house the other day when I suddenly realized that this is how I used to feel all the time. This is not abnormal for me. This is me.

I might not go so far as to say I’ve been depressed for two years, but now that I’m feeling so great, I can see that I was something less than great. I don’t know if it was crazy hormones brought on by breastfeeding (much as I love breastfeeding and miss it, I do think it gives me a little bit of The Crazy because after weaning both times I noticed a sudden upswing on the happiness scale) that finally went away, or if it’s Utah, or if it’s having more time with Jeremy at home, or if it’s the working out. But wow.

Of course there are bad days, but I find I’m able to take them in stride now. I don’t lose my temper with the kids anywhere near as often. I am not annoyed with Jeremy for no particular reason. I spend the entire morning doing housework and I like it.

I made chicken broth for fun this morning! This turned out to be a bad idea. First, I nearly cut off my index finger (thank the in-laws for those sharp knives, or it would have bled for hours). Then it turned out to be a messy, day-long undertaking. But by golly, that broth is good. It had better be. It had better give me whiter teeth and drop me down to a lower pants size.

Tomorrow I will attempt to find my sister’s box of maternity clothes (somewhere in a stack of boxes in the garage) and organize the girls’ bedroom (too-small clothes everywhere, since all the bins are somewhere in a stack of boxes in the garage). If I don’t write again for a while, it might be because I was smothered to death in a rain of cardboard and Rubbermaid.

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