I remember my Grandma Denton working with me on my pronunciation of certain words. It began, apparently, when I was trying to tell my grandma that I was a girl. Only I told her I was a grill. I was pretty young, probably around the 3-5 age range. I suspect it was around the time I entered kindergarten, but I don’t know for sure. I remember clearly that moment in time with Grandma Denton trying to get me to hear the difference between grill and girl, and then the success I felt when I finally was able to declare with certainty, I am a girl.

You may wonder why my gender was in question at such a young age. I blame my mother. She, however, would probably blame my hair. I have very thick hair. My hair is so thick that a hair stylist never fails to comment on it, especially when the haircut is over, and she sees all of the hair on the floor. A lot of thick hair with a tendency to tangle. This led to lots of tears as my mom attempted to brush my hair, and this was before they made things like spray detanglers.

And so my mother, who is a very practical mother without a lick of fashion sense, would take me to the beauty salon and have them cut my hair so short that my gender would be called into question. I hated short hair. I still do. And before my mom can complain that she does to have fashion sense, may I just remind her of the jeans fiasco? When I was in sixth or seventh grade, and we went school shopping, my mom purchased my clothes. There were jeans on sale, and Mom realized what a great deal these jeans were, and so she bought me the jeans. Only she didn’t buy me a pair of jeans. She bought me several pairs of the same jeans.

To make matters worse, Mom bought me four pairs of the same jeans with absolutely no difference. It wasn’t like she bought a variety of colors. I, who had my mother as a role model, didn’t question the multiple pairs of jeans. I was not fashion-minded either. That is, I wasn’t until that day, not long into the school year, when I was accused by an older kid of wearing the same jeans every day. After this mortifying experience that happened with an audience, I learned to at least buy different shades of bluejeans.

But this blog wasn’t about my mother’s lack of fashion. And it isn’t about my husband either. (I’m just saying.) It was supposed to be about me. So, back on topic….

I tell you this story about how I was once a grill, in order to let you know that apparently my enunciation skills have not improved.

Not long ago, we had pulled pork sandwiches for dinner. My husband asked me what it was, and I told him, and he looked at me strangely and asked again. I started making motions with my hands as if I were pulling taffy. That’s when my husband realized what I was saying.

Instead of pulled pork, I was apparently saying pooled pork. It has become the latest joke at our house. My husband’s favorite comment? “Does it have chlorine in it?”

Yesterday, I had to say it again only it was pulled beef, and I couldn’t tell for sure if I was saying it right or not. I asked my 10-year-old daughter, Maxine, and she wasn’t sure either. At that point, I couldn’t say pulled until I heard someone else say it. It kept coming out pooled. I think I figured out now that it has something to do with the way you purse your lips. Or maybe I’m full of beans. I don’t know.

I’m just a grill. Why would you expect me to be able to say pulled?

Thanks for playing.