Motherhood Uncensored [link above] has requested tales of risque, out-of-context baby-talk, spousal-talk or Freudian slips. This got me thinking. At first, I thought: how boring of me to have none! Then I realised that I just suck under pressure. And that got me rambling for longer than I’m sure she wants in her comments – so you get the full story here!
I know Freudian slips are a dime-a-dozen around our place – so much so that I don’t bother to remember them anymore. But there is one that has stuck.
Both Mr.Q and I are gesturers; we employ both facial and hand movements with impunity to help get our points across to each other as, by the end of the day, words frequently fail us. Some of these have become our “international symbols for…” and get used in times of verbal inadequacies or as a communication tool in loud settings.
One evening, many moons ago, Mr.Q and I were discussing the merits of various cooking methods, heats and times for a rather nice little steak. As Meat-Boy, Mr.Q is gravely concerned with the outcome and options available to him in order to obtain his perfect piece of meat: medium well [ick. if it ain’t medium rare, why bother?] and still juicy.
That was his word choice: juicy. Pronounced “joooo-ceeee” and accompanied by both hands, cupped, fingers spread and making slow, repetitive squeezing motions.
There is literally nothing that can be done to make this a socially acceptable gesture, particularly in combination with the word “juicy”, yet both the word and the motion often creep into our shopping trips over the meat counter while choosing the choicest cuts for the barbecue.
I am constantly anticipating our security-camera photos to be prominently displayed at the entrance to the grocery store, warning staff of the pervs who are no longer allowed to shop there. So far, so good. I don’t know if that says more about us, or the meat counter guy.