Slang it!

Last night, I rapped out to Push It by Salt and her cohort Pepa, much to the embarrassment of The Man, who happened to be walking with me to the movie theatre to visit Pandora and the large blue people of Avatar.

I blame him. He did, after all, say “Push it real good.” That’s all it took and I was p-p-psh-pshing to the beat and waxing poetic about Pops and the kiss he was about to lay down on me. Fast. Or I’d get pissed. Is that piss drunk from the travesty of making out with an old man, or pissed as in angry that this old geezer was thinking my fine ass would be in close proximity with his wrinkly and droopy one? I like to think it was the latter. Hopefully.

Anyway, as usual, in the small hours of the morning I was thinking when I should have been sleeping. I rap. Badly. Because it makes me laugh and feel like a gangsta at the same time. True dat.

The Man thinks he’s a gangsta. For reals. I have to remind him that he grew up in Gaspe, Quebec, so close to the Maritimes that one friend calls him Newfie. Yet he still insists that he’s “Westside” (pronounced Wes-syeeed). He would stick a comb in his ‘fro, if only he had enough hair. He even does the whole W thing with his fingers, which I think is even more embarrassing than the Wes-syeeed crap. He’s even got the dog doing it. Okay, The Man manipulates the dog’s paw into the W, but I swear that dog thinks he’s Snoop Dog. Oh the influence he’s been under!

This post is more than how The Man makes me cover my eyes in disbelief. It’s more about how when we get older the slang we used to use or sometimes want to use sounds more ghetto than ghetto fabulous.

My Ranger friend and I were having a tête-à-tête just a few nights ago in which she ended every sentence in “bitch” or the plural “bitches.” I chose homefry, homeslice or any variation – homegirl – you get the picture. I also had jazz hands, but that’s another story for another time.

It got me thinking again as to the sayings that were popular in my formative years (read teeny-bopper stage). For me, it started with the Valley Girls. I was gagging myself and everyone around me with spoon. I was rad and narly and hanging 10 all over the place.

Some of my friends (The Man included) have adopted some of the sayings of today. Of course now that I’m under pressure I can’t think of any. Or, perhaps I’ve blocked them from my short-term memory because I remember what it felt (and sounded) like when my Mum, June Cleaver herself or at least a very neurotic version, said “Gag me with a spoon” for the very first and last time.

Sure, each region, state, province or wherever the hell you live, has its own dialect – a set of words unique to that area. Age brackets have their own dialect too and it’s a bit disconcerting when a foreigner tries to infiltrate the tribe. Just as a group of teenagers may have looked at me in confusion (and then alarm) when I was spewing forth the “Can’t you feel the music pumping hard like I wish you would,” so should they too if I used the word “fail” and I’m not talking about a science or driving test.

Words also change their meaning over time. When gay once meant happy, it now means something completely different. And swinging? Well, don’t get me started on that one!