Preaching on pronunciation: That's the spirit!

It just goes to show that you can get into trouble for practically ANYTHING nowadays. No...let me amend that: I can get into trouble for practically ANYTHING nowadays. Case in point:  There I was, yesterday in church. Yes...church. Taking detailed sermon-notes to stay on task. Discussing the weather with fellow parishioners. Singing. And in this case, singing the Doxology. Poorly, but still, with feeling and sincerity. "Praise Father, Son, & Holy Ghost. Ahhhhhh-men." I was startled when my daughter Sydney sent me a scathing scowl.

I would learn the reason for the scowl as soon as we reached the van. "Did you hear Mom putting on airs during the service," Sydney asked her father in disgust. I was shocked. Me? Airs? I'm the one who begged for Duluth Trading Post no-yank tanks for Christmas and am currently petitioning the company to make knee-length tank tops. I take the dogs out every day for their morning constitution clad in a robe with my hair wrapped in a turban, cheerfully waving at passing neighbors. Airs? Me?

"What was with your Ahhhh-men?" she said accusingly to me, "You know that we're long-A Amen people."

We are? Frankly...I was stunned.

"Whenever you're trying to impress people, you switch to Ahhhh-men," she alleged. I was shocked. When I am consciously trying to impress people, I wear shoes that have backs to them and use the word "extrapolate" in context. If I'm REALLY trying to wow someone, I might put on some nail-polish and then let a year go by as the paint slowly chips off. Airs?!?! Me?!?!

Brad had remained strangely silent during this exchange but re-joined the conversation as we drove past a barn in mid-repair. Sydney remarked upon the Amish practices of barn-raising and I pounced.

"Wait. Say that again," I told her.

"What," she asked, confused.

""Who raises barns?" I asked.

"The Amish," she answered.

Triumphant, I turned to my husband. "Did you hear that?"

"Airs/smares," I snapped, "look at you getting all fancy with how you pronounce Amish."

"What do you mean," Sydney replied, confused, "I say it like everyone else says it."

Does she?" I asked Brad, who was still keeping quiet. His mid-west accent makes him a target during conversations such as these. He did shake his head though.

"You say the beginning of Amish like you're going to say the word almond," I contested, "It's suppose to sound like when the doctor asks you to say Ahhh...."

"Like in Amen," Brad finally said, grinning. Sydney slumped back in her seat and I sat up much straighter, proudly vindicated. Just the emotions that one is SUPPOSE to feel when one leaves church.