Being the almost-totally-phonics-literate Mom that I am, thanks to Dr. B and hours of practice with my sweetheart of a son, nothing makes my skin crawl more than misuse of the Queen's English.
Like the time my friend's Grandfather loudly asked for "fajitas" in a Mexican restaurant, but pronounced it so they rhymed with "vaginas". Yeah.
So, this week, I drove to Baylor to meet Mom for an appointment. In the building that houses her doctor is a construction project that would make most people question the entire idea of a recession. We're talking sparks-flying, walls-being-erected, paint-splattering, millions-of-dollars good times.
Unfortunately for me, I was running a smidgen behind. When I thrust the car into PARK, I hit the ground running, hoping to make it exactly on time, since I had approximately 2 minutes and 14 seconds.
Building one, the address I was positive I had visited two times before, looked strangely unfamiliar. I rounded one corner and didn't recognize ANYTHING.
"Strange." I thought "I could have sworn this was the place. Must be the stress."
So, I ran out the front door and to the next building, about 100 feet away.
As I entered, I realized this building also looked completely foreign. But, I reasoned, maybe I can ACCESS the floor I need by elevator. I scanned the directory, located the doctor's name*, and got on the elevator.
Except, when I entered the elevator and looked at the numbered buttons, there was no "two". There was a "Lobby/one" and a "three" button. No dice on the second floor I needed to go to.
Again, reasoning skills moved at warp speed, "Go to number three. Exit. Find stairs. Walk down one flight."
At the bottom of the flight of stairs I found floor number two locked. Crap.
Down the stairs and out the door I flew. Now I was really late. And more panicked than ever.
I must have looked like a crazed hyena as I re-entered the first building, because one of the receptionists asked if she could point me in the right direction. Eyes bulging, heart hurtling blood through my veins, I screamed "YES! How can I get to Dr. Mathew's office on the second floor?"
After a maze-like description of how I could accomplish this, I managed to get on the wrong elevator for the second time. When I exited on the second floor, the lady behind the welcome desk said "Are you looking for JYnecology?"
First, do I look like I NEED a gynecologist? Is there a countdown clock on my forehead with big zeros meaning it is past time for the joy of stirrups and lubricating jelly?
Second. You WORK for a GYnecologist. Not a JYnecologist. I realize it's a "vagina", but that's because the "g" sees an "i" and it then says "j".
Thank goodness I didn't say this. Because my phonics arrogance could have been cut with a knife.
After a couple of days of laughing at this ridiculous pronunciation I realized she was actually RIGHT. Why? Because the "g" sees a "y" so it SHOULD say "j". However, the word comes from Greek and French roots, so all the English rules get thrown out the window.
Bright side? Jyno-girl got me where I needed to go. Late, frazzled, but, still, before the doctor arrived. Thank you, oh woman of funny misprononciation.
Which just totally proved to me: people with poor pronunciation techniques make good direction givers.
Those of us who can pronounce the name of the medical specialty? Couldn't find our own butt in a store named "Rears R Us".
*Just to be sure I am in the right area of the hospital because I don't want to make another disastrous blunder. Late doesn't describe where I am now.
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