My primordial accent is the mellifluous Tampa Twang. (The spouse never considered it part of love, honor, and cherish to refrain from mercilessly abusing, for example, my way with dipthongs.) Years of residence in a Mountain state, the Northwest, and parts much farther west have sanded down my native drawl into something currently resembling the standard American monotone. My voice is now being ineluctably commandeered by the spirit of the Midwest, and soon, very soon, it will be indistinguishable from that of that secretary in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. I'm beginning to "grind my vowels" and find, alas, that these sounds escape my throat before I have a chance to order them to stand still while I fluff and decompress them. I've never heard Iowan Mrs. Vilsack speak, but I have a dark suspicion we sound alike nowadays. Maybe she's just operating on the "the best defense is a good offense" principle. But still, we don't talk as funny as the rest of you. Especially you Northeasterners.
No, no, it's Midwesterners who have no accents. Everyone knows that.
But I must admit I thought it was pretty funny that she waxed indignant over the fact that her friend was offered a "side saddle" (instead of a "side salad") at a restaurant. The local steak joint calls its side dishes "side saddles". Dumb, stupidy Texans!
Posted by: Angie Schultz on July 28, 2004