Hey
What's in a Name?
When I was in the 7th grade, my family moved into a house that my parents bought from a man named Shawokker. It was originally built in the 1800s, a tiny bungalow, and while in Mr. Shawokker's possession, it took on the form of a bowling alley. It was a narrow building and was probably proportioned in its days as a bungalow, but Mr. Shawokker had a big family, being mormon and all, and so he built on to the bungalow, by extending it back... and back... and back.
After moving in, our neighbors (a little late with the forthcoming information) regaled us with tales of Mr. Shawokker's stupidity. You see, he was one of those 'do it yourself' kind of guys, not because he enjoyed it, but because he was a cheapskate and a fool. One of my favorite stories that our neighbors told us involved Mr. Shawokker falling through the living room ceiling. He was working on the second floor of the addition and must have stepped on some unreinforced floor board, which sent him plummeting through the floor of the master bedroom and onto the couch in the living room below. The man may have known how to preserve veggies (we found a ton of mason jars full of the stuff in the basement), but construction was not his forte.
Mr. Shawokker also installed the electrical wiring and plumbing in the house. When we'd flip the closet light on and off, the garage door would go up and down. And the garage door opener flushed the toilet. We were fearful of what might happen if we flushed the toilet the proper way, that is with the handle attached to the toilet, so we continued to use the garage door opener for several months until one day, one of my friends flushed it by accident. We all ducked for cover, but it turned out that it actually worked. That was a relief, because sanitizing the garage door opener was really getting to be a pain.
I nearly froze to death during the first winter in that house. My bedroom was an arctic chamber. As girls of that age do, I put a hand drawn sign on my bedroom door, but instead of saying something along the lines of, "Cheryn's room. Keep Out," my sign read, "This way to the North Pole." At first, my stepfather thought I was just complaining, as girls of that age do... but after a while, Bob decided to cut a hole in the ceiling of my closet so he could examine the heating ducts. "My God," he said, "That man is a monster." While my bedroom had heating vents, the heating ducts had been sealed off, a good 3 feet short of the vents. My bedroom had been Mr. Shawokker's daughter's room before we moved in -- apparently he was so cheap that he chose to freeze his daughter in order to save on heating bills. She probably has an unnatural blue tint to her skin and an large collection of sweaters to this day.
My family began to use the Shawokker name as a verb. We'd say things like, "He's a Shawokker," to describe a person exhibiting moronic behavior... or, "It's a Shawokker," to describe something that was, plainly, fucked up or cheaply done. Sometimes the term was used as an expletive: "Shawokker!" when, for example, stubbing toes on a box or piece of furniture left out of place. Sometimes it was used when a freak accident occured, like when a jar of jam fell out of the pantry, hitting a neighbor on the head, knocking her unconscious.
*****
I have a friend named Sally. She's well traveled and doesn't hesitate to let everyone know about it. At a dinner party, someone might ask Sally to pass the salt and with salt shaker in hand, she'll say, "Did I ever tell you about the time I was sick for three days in a tent full of nomads mining the salt lakes on the Tibetan Plateau?" "Yes, Sally, we all love that one," everyone will reply with the demonic expression that accompanies the eyes rolled back in the head. But there's always some newcomer, some idiot, who will say, "Well, I haven't heard your story, Sally, and it sounds fascinating. Please go on." Several hours later, when desert has been served and there is no longer need for salt, the salt will be passed to the person who originally made the request. In the meanwhile, everyone at the table has spent the time fantasizing about sticking forks in electrical sockets or stuffing mashed potatoes in their ears.
Like Mr. Shawokker, Sally's name has become a verb. "Don't be a Sally," Benjamin and I will remind ourselves when meeting new people on the road (and we promise our friends that we'll stick to this when we return home). It's not easy, though, because Sally is a loudmouth and a braggart and she wants to be heard. Often times, we stop ourselves from saying things like, "Well if you think that's bad, in India (blah blah blah)..." or, "When we were in China (blah blah blah)..."
Sometimes these things fight desperately to creep out of our mouths because they are a kind of 'right of passage' in the traveler's world, but we've gotten over that. And sometimes, these utterances genuinely add to a conversation, which makes them OK. But other times, these things are released onto our audience to get other Sally-Big-Mouths, the ones who tend to complain (Sally is bipolar), to shut up. It's the verbal equivalent of the 'talk to the hand' hand signal. "You've been saying that traffic is so terrible in China for the last hour? Pah! You should ride on an ox cart in India," or, "The natives are getting you down and you'd like them to go away? Phooey! At least they speak English."
Other uses of the term "Sally":
"Pulling a Sally": to engage in Sally-like behavior
"I've been Sallied": a 'Sally' has dominated a conversation, bragging or complaining
"Sally...": a warning equivalent to the orange bar in the terror threat scale
"Sally!": equivalent to any expletive of one's choosing
Another annoying trait of Sally's is her tendency to use the term 'did' when speaking about visiting a country. Sally will say, "Well, first I did Malaysia, and then I did Thailand, and then I did Laos, and next I'll do Cambodia." You'd think Sally was a whore, with all this 'did-ing' and 'do-ing'. A person 'does' a pickup at a bar, or the laundry, or the dishes, but one does not 'do' a country. Please, Sally, mind your manners!
After moving in, our neighbors (a little late with the forthcoming information) regaled us with tales of Mr. Shawokker's stupidity. You see, he was one of those 'do it yourself' kind of guys, not because he enjoyed it, but because he was a cheapskate and a fool. One of my favorite stories that our neighbors told us involved Mr. Shawokker falling through the living room ceiling. He was working on the second floor of the addition and must have stepped on some unreinforced floor board, which sent him plummeting through the floor of the master bedroom and onto the couch in the living room below. The man may have known how to preserve veggies (we found a ton of mason jars full of the stuff in the basement), but construction was not his forte.
Mr. Shawokker also installed the electrical wiring and plumbing in the house. When we'd flip the closet light on and off, the garage door would go up and down. And the garage door opener flushed the toilet. We were fearful of what might happen if we flushed the toilet the proper way, that is with the handle attached to the toilet, so we continued to use the garage door opener for several months until one day, one of my friends flushed it by accident. We all ducked for cover, but it turned out that it actually worked. That was a relief, because sanitizing the garage door opener was really getting to be a pain.
I nearly froze to death during the first winter in that house. My bedroom was an arctic chamber. As girls of that age do, I put a hand drawn sign on my bedroom door, but instead of saying something along the lines of, "Cheryn's room. Keep Out," my sign read, "This way to the North Pole." At first, my stepfather thought I was just complaining, as girls of that age do... but after a while, Bob decided to cut a hole in the ceiling of my closet so he could examine the heating ducts. "My God," he said, "That man is a monster." While my bedroom had heating vents, the heating ducts had been sealed off, a good 3 feet short of the vents. My bedroom had been Mr. Shawokker's daughter's room before we moved in -- apparently he was so cheap that he chose to freeze his daughter in order to save on heating bills. She probably has an unnatural blue tint to her skin and an large collection of sweaters to this day.
My family began to use the Shawokker name as a verb. We'd say things like, "He's a Shawokker," to describe a person exhibiting moronic behavior... or, "It's a Shawokker," to describe something that was, plainly, fucked up or cheaply done. Sometimes the term was used as an expletive: "Shawokker!" when, for example, stubbing toes on a box or piece of furniture left out of place. Sometimes it was used when a freak accident occured, like when a jar of jam fell out of the pantry, hitting a neighbor on the head, knocking her unconscious.
*****
I have a friend named Sally. She's well traveled and doesn't hesitate to let everyone know about it. At a dinner party, someone might ask Sally to pass the salt and with salt shaker in hand, she'll say, "Did I ever tell you about the time I was sick for three days in a tent full of nomads mining the salt lakes on the Tibetan Plateau?" "Yes, Sally, we all love that one," everyone will reply with the demonic expression that accompanies the eyes rolled back in the head. But there's always some newcomer, some idiot, who will say, "Well, I haven't heard your story, Sally, and it sounds fascinating. Please go on." Several hours later, when desert has been served and there is no longer need for salt, the salt will be passed to the person who originally made the request. In the meanwhile, everyone at the table has spent the time fantasizing about sticking forks in electrical sockets or stuffing mashed potatoes in their ears.
Like Mr. Shawokker, Sally's name has become a verb. "Don't be a Sally," Benjamin and I will remind ourselves when meeting new people on the road (and we promise our friends that we'll stick to this when we return home). It's not easy, though, because Sally is a loudmouth and a braggart and she wants to be heard. Often times, we stop ourselves from saying things like, "Well if you think that's bad, in India (blah blah blah)..." or, "When we were in China (blah blah blah)..."
Sometimes these things fight desperately to creep out of our mouths because they are a kind of 'right of passage' in the traveler's world, but we've gotten over that. And sometimes, these utterances genuinely add to a conversation, which makes them OK. But other times, these things are released onto our audience to get other Sally-Big-Mouths, the ones who tend to complain (Sally is bipolar), to shut up. It's the verbal equivalent of the 'talk to the hand' hand signal. "You've been saying that traffic is so terrible in China for the last hour? Pah! You should ride on an ox cart in India," or, "The natives are getting you down and you'd like them to go away? Phooey! At least they speak English."
Other uses of the term "Sally":
"Pulling a Sally": to engage in Sally-like behavior
"I've been Sallied": a 'Sally' has dominated a conversation, bragging or complaining
"Sally...": a warning equivalent to the orange bar in the terror threat scale
"Sally!": equivalent to any expletive of one's choosing
Another annoying trait of Sally's is her tendency to use the term 'did' when speaking about visiting a country. Sally will say, "Well, first I did Malaysia, and then I did Thailand, and then I did Laos, and next I'll do Cambodia." You'd think Sally was a whore, with all this 'did-ing' and 'do-ing'. A person 'does' a pickup at a bar, or the laundry, or the dishes, but one does not 'do' a country. Please, Sally, mind your manners!
posted by Cheryn at 3:48 PM
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