Lisp

So here I am, thinking only a few people can notice my jaw with its Tardive Dyskinesia, and my chiropractor says to me today, “What’s going on with your jaw? You have a lisp now?”

Darn it all.  I wonder what he really saw.  When I was in third grade I had to take speech lessons for a lisp, now it’s apparently back.

On the good side, I received my new weighted blanket today, hope to sleep through the night tonight!

Pay it Forward,

Sarah

 

 

THE RIDE

Just call me Farrah.  Libby remembers me blogging about how I have a little lisp left despite my elementary school corrective speech class.  She also remembers how I complain when I get mail addressed to Farrah Bernardi vs. Sarah Berardi.

Tonight we got on our little touristy bus (we usually don’t do this touristy stuff when in NYC) called “The Ride”.  It’s a bus full of broadway seating looking out the side of its window.  Funky music is playing the whole time.  I love funky music.  The Ride points out a few things in the city and has strategically placed street artists to entertain us as we are pulled over. (As Libbylicious said, “how Farrahandipitous”.)

When we all had to introduce ourselves, Libbylicous jumped in and introduced me as Farrah vs. Sarah.  (She also had the hotel bellman call me that when I checked in after her.)  I was from then on out known as Farrah-Sarah on The Ride, the poor guide didn’t know which name to call me.

The Ride got competitive with some Cash Cab-type questions.  Libbylicious is incredibly competitive and had to out shout everyone.  Which is hard to do when you’re setting next to me.  Actually, now that I think of it, nobody else was screaming out answers but us.  When asked if anyone on The Ride had any special talents, Lib raised her hand and said, “Math”.  OMG.  Help me.  How embarrassing. (She’s an accountant.)  Even though Libbylicious technically won the quiz questions, it was a ten-year old’s birthday, so we were supposed to pass “The Ride”prize-coffee mug down to her.  She was ten years old.  It was her birthday.  Libbylicious kept it and hid it in her coat.  She’s 60.

It’s a good thing I saw her mischievousness and retrieved it for the poor birthday girl.

 

I HAVE A LISP?

With the bright idea of trying to build credit for our son, Chris, we had put our family cell phone in his name.  This meant that the bills came to my house to pay, but it was under his name (he doesn’t live here).  It also meant that when anyone in our family called anyone from one of our cell phones, it showed up on their caller ID as “Christopher Berardi“.  My friends would wonder, “why is Chris calling me instead of his mother?”

After a few years of this, it just got to be a pain due to various reasons, and we decided to just shift it all back into my name.  Since we thought it would save time to just do this over the phone while we were driving (therefore speaker-phone quality), we did it that way.  Both of us had to be there to say “yes I agree to pass over the liability of payment to Sarah….blah blah blah, and “yes, I accept……blah”.  It took over an hour.  Very frustrating to say the least.  It would have been so much quicker to just run into the store, wait our turn, and have someone switch it over on the computer right in front of us.

After the long hour which felt like two, I received my first phone call from Andrea, using the phone on our family plan.  Viola!  Instead of saying “Christopher Berardi” it says……..”Farah Berardi???????”  NOOOOOOO.

I’m so sensitive about the way I say my Ss!  I’ve gotten so much mail from people addressed to Farah Berardi over the years, and it makes me spittin‘ mad.  Since I was in fourth grade and the teacher decided I needed speech therapy for my “lisp” – the speech therapist pulled me out of class and made me say “Sarah had six silly sisters”.  But I said “Tharah hathz thix thilly thithterth“.  I HAD A MILLION TEETH MISSING.  I did NOT have a lisp! (Not that there’s anything wrong with it.)

Another thing I’m sensitive about is the H at the end of my name.  When I was a new kid in a new school in second grade, the teacher called me up in front of the class on the fourth day or so of school and said, out loud, in front of everyone, “Sarah, you’re not spelling your own name correctly, you’re putting an H at the end of your name, and you don’t have an H at the end of your name.”  I told her that I did.  She said according to her records, I did not, and I’d have to bring a note in from my parents.  Which I did.  But she had so humiliated me.  Did she read my mom’s note out loud to everyone to prove I was right?  NO.  (Am I a grudge holder?)

So, now our phones all say Farah Berardi.  At least there’s an H at the end.  And I should tell the buttheads that Farah has two Rs.

Cheers,
Sarah