The marriage of Ouiser Boudreaux and the Minister of Silly Walks

In this month's Raleigh News and Observer column, I turn my husband and myself into total stereotypes. Sadly (or not!), I didn't exaggerate all that much.

Due to copyfitting issues, the paper ran a condensed version of the piece (above the fold!). Here's the original, revealing more of my redneck roots.

-------------------------------------------------

With the exception of a college semester at the University of London 20 years ago, I've lived in North Carolina my entire life. I've been in Raleigh for 17 years now and my kid sister lives in Vermont. But every time we talk on the phone, our Brunswick County accents come out from dormancy loud and proud.

We love hearing ourselves slip effortlessly into the dulcet tones of home. It's the auditory equivalent of honey dripping off razor wire; the sound of people who know which forks to use at a dinner party and also enjoy domestic beer (from a glass, of course, drinking from a can would be tacky).

I can hear my own Southern accent, but I don't notice my husband's Northampton, England, intonations. It is, after all, the voice I hear all the time at home, even when I'm not really paying attention. But I'm reminded how nice it is every time someone says, "I could listen to Steve talk all day" or asks us where we're from after overhearing him.

Steve and I communicate through a common language, but we speak entirely different tongues. Though the vernacular is different, some basic sentiments are expressed in similar ways.

For instance, I always bless someone's heart before gossiping about him or her. Steve is inclined to gossip first, then bless the subject's little cotton socks.

My female relatives still "swannie" in frustration. These steel magnolias reared me to appear to be a nice Southern lady, so I always try to remember to scream "bless America" after taking the Lord's name in public. Steve occasionally slips back into his native dialect and adds "blarmey" after doing the same thing.

English cursing sounds downright adorable. Steve can let out an entire string of adjectives that sound innocuous – even charming – and wouldn't be banned on television here, but have entirely different meanings across the pond. Never ask a proper English granny if "bugger" is a real bad word, not a fake one like "fudge." I made that mistake.

We mastered our language differences early on. We're only one month apart in age, so we share many of the same pop-cultural reference points from childhood. We both watched American cartoons and listened to British new wave on the radio when we were kids. But common pop culture was about the only experience we shared.

I have never shifted gears with my left hand. Steve has never driven a Camaro. I never had to wear a uniform to school. Steve never wore a pair of parachute pants or Ocean Pacific shorts. Boys from my hometown surfed. Boys from Northampton played football with a round ball instead of a pigskin.

I have never seen a badger, so I always crack up when I see the "Badgers!" warning signs on the M1 when we're driving from London to Northampton. I can't help but conjure up images of chubby, furry mammals brandishing pistols like highwaymen menacing the roadways of England.

Steve had never seen an opossum before the day we watched one cross the power line over the main road behind us and settle into a holly tree in our backyard one afternoon. He grabbed his camera and got within 4 feet of it to snap shots of this exotic creature to send to the lads back home.

"Honey," I called from the deck when I saw that Steve was getting too close to the possum, "It's out in broad daylight, so something's wrong with that thing. I don't want you to get rabies."

Steve has developed, since joining my Brunswick County family, a taste for collard greens. I now not only know what a parsnip is, it's become my favorite part of an English Sunday Roast.

My husband will get nowhere near an oyster, which pains me, as my hometown hosts North Carolina's annual Oyster Festival. I do, however, leave the room when a jar of piccalilli (an English condiment made from onions, green tomatoes, cabbage and vinegar) is being unscrewed.

We're good, though. We can both rhapsodize endlessly about our love for bacon, which, we agree, tastes and smells like heaven. It's a love that knows no bounds and unifies people.

People like a girl from Shallotte and a bloke from England. Bless our hearts and little cotton socks.