I swear to god that this is an actual conversation that happened in our house.
Blah, blah, blah . . . I am feeling like a failure . . . blah, blah, blah . . . what is the point of any of this . . . blah, blah, blah . . . what the fuck am I doing with my life . . . blah, blah, blah . . . I am so tired of listening to the sound of my own voice going on and on about what a loser I am . . . blah, blah, blah . . . I do not have a plan and people should have plans and I am just the biggest loser in the world . . . and there I go again talking shit about myself . . . blah, blah, blah . . . sigh.
That was all me, by the way.
Sigh.
Then Mark tries to be helpful, and at some point he says, “Well, a lot of your writing is memoir in style.”
I stare at him, “What did you just say?”
He is puzzled, “I just mean that you write a lot of memoir pieces.”
“OK, that is not how you say that word.”
“What word? Memoir? That’s how I have always said it. That’s correct.”
“Nope. Incorrect, sir! Memoir has an R sound at the end . . . mem-wahr.”
Mark shakes his head, “No, that’s wrong. It’s mem-wah.”
I giggle, “It is not mem-wah, which totally makes me think of ben-wa, which makes me think of ben-wa balls, which is cracking me all the fuck up, because then that makes me think that all mem-wah writing is basically an exercise in masturbation.”
Mark stares at me, eyebrows raised.
I glare at him, “Oh, thank you very much, babe. Now you have depressed the FUCK out of me. What am I even doing spending all this time every day writing the stories of my life? Do you know how much time I could save if I just masturbated every day instead of writing? Damn it. I am way faster at masturbating than I am writing. Way faster.”
Mark stares at me for a moment longer, and then he turns back to his computer, “Try not to make a mess over there with your mem-wah speedy fingering.”
“You are so annoying. Annoying and wrong. Hold on.” I use my speedy masturbatory fingers to Google the pronunciation of memoir and click on the top link. I turn the volume up as high as it will go. I click the audio-link so that the word will fill the room. I want Mark to appreciate the scathing force of my triumphant scorn.
MEM-WAH
Wait . . . what?
I click again.
MEM-WAH
Mark is all gloaty, “HA! I am right! I told you so.”
I stare at my computer, disbelieving, “That cannot be right. No one says mem-wah. It’s mem-wahr. With an R at the end. Mem-wah sounds insanely pompous and stupid.”
Mark leans and points to my computer screen, “Click it again so you can fully appreciate this moment in which I am correct.”
MEM-WAH
Annoying.
I am feeling defeated, and so I do not click on any of a dozen other links on my screen that would inform me that the correct pronunciation of memoir is mem-wahr, and that only pompous imbeciles pronounce it mem-wah. I have been feeling vulnerable and defeated lately, and this small wordy loss makes me just feel like going to bed for several days. I sit there and stare into space and think back on all the times I have misspoken and mispronounced this word over the years. How many people have listened to me and laughed mockingly in their heads as I spoke? Damn it. Damn Mark . . . he hears me talk all the time . . . why didn’t he mention that I was getting this word wrong? How is it even possible that I have gotten this word wrong? How can I claim to write memoir if I can’t even say the fucking word?
I am filled with self-pity. I am the punchline to an inappropriate mem-wah joke.
Also, I will never be able to learn to pronounce it correctly without giggling, because mem-wah conjures up images of ben-wa balls. It so fucking does. I will laugh and clench my pelvic muscles every time I talk about my writing, which will perhaps improve my small urinary incontinence issues, but which will make me feel like a loser every time I giggle and the urine does not flow.
MEM-WAH
Really?
DAMN IT.
In the background, Mark is still talking, “That’s funny that you mention that it sounds like ben-wa, because I always remember how to say the word mem-wah by thinking of the sham-wah.”
Wait . . . what?
I turn to him as I replay his last words in my mind, “Wait, babe. What did you just say?”
He is filled with confidence, “I said that I remember how to pronounce mem-wah by thinking of the sham-wah.”
“Sham-wah?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him, “Really, babe? The absorbent towel thingie?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him silently as he tries to figure out why I am staring at him silently.
Realization dawns, “Oh wait! I’m thinking of the ShamWow.”
“So I just want to be clear. You use the mistaken memory of a superabsorbent cloth called a sham-wah to remember how to pronounce mem-wah?”
“Ummm, yes.”
“So will you now be advising me about my MemWOW writing?”
Mark sighs, “You are going to write about this, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps. It does have a certain WOW factor.”
And then I turn and click a few more links on my computer screen.
Memoir.
MEM-WAHR
Only pompous imbeciles pronounce it mem-wah.
Memoir.
With an R at the end.
Duh.
I need to stop doubting myself so much.
Hush.
