One of the joys of being married to a non-native English speaker is that ordinary language gets delightfully scrambled into something better—half poetry, half glitch.
Some highlights:
“Look, it’s an ice cream bus!” (Technically accurate, and somehow more charming.)
“Let’s meet at noon-fifteen,” or the late-night classic: “I didn’t fall asleep until midnight-thirty.” (Which honestly sounds like a dystopian time zone.)
“I forgot the sunshine cream.” (More evocative than sunscreen and frankly, a branding opportunity.)
“I smell a skank.” (Uttered while walking past a skunk-scented yard. I didn’t correct it. I couldn’t.)
And then there’s “Thank you for all your precious help,” sent in multiple work emails with the purest of intentions—until I gently suggested precious might be best saved for gemstones and toddlers.
The downside? Being held personally responsible for the entire English language. Why “patio” has a hard T, but “patience” softens to a whisper. Why read refuses to commit to a tense. Why “though,” “tough,” and “through” all look like siblings in a cursed family photo.
Apparently, that’s on me.
