It’s not fair to the commentator on NPR that I was driving past a stinky recycling center as she described her recipe. Nobody’s food sounds good when the stench of dumpster-beer-bottle-backwash fills your car. I tried to imagine an equitable do-over for the cookbook author, who clearly knew what she was talking about. If only I’d been cruising by a Japanese tea house, or traversing a giant suspension bridge instead, my mouth might have watered.

In truth, no waft of cherry blossoms or ocean air could make her tailgate-friendly peanut butter and jelly wings sound good. I’m sure she used quality, gourmet ingredients. But all I could think about were those unctuous, pin-striped jars of peanut butter and jelly that as kids, we knew didn’t need refrigeration after opening. Then I pictured a football field of clammy, raw chicken wings sitting in the lotus position. That was the second before I turned the radio off.

Wings bring out the worst in people. Including graphic designers. There’s an old Hardee’s in town that’s been hijacked by this restaurant chain:

Corporate swaps out the ellipsis for a town name when a franchisee signs on. But it’s just like when I put on an outfit that looks terrible, and then think that the right earrings will turn things around:

Note to Wings: don’t hire my seven-year-old to name the platter on the lower right.

“Want help getting these to your car?” the grocery bagger asked, holding a plump sack of uncooked wings in each fist. “No, thank you,” I replied. This was years ago, when I’d first moved to Virginia. My “car” was a bike. The only way to preserve my dignity was to cram the chicken into the front basket myself—alone. I’d invited some architecture school friends over to my house to watch the show “Northern Exposure.” Why not make some wings and score some brews, I thought. Clearly I hadn’t worked out the details. For the whole two-mile ride home, I had to lean over the rear wheel to counterbalance dinner. Then I went back for the beer.

A few months later, I was on a night flight to Kentucky. Out the pitch-black window, I noticed another aircraft flying dangerously close by. Its red tail light blinked in a terrifyingly even meter; its path never strayed from my view. I hesitated to say something to the flight attendant, but the safety of the passengers and crew was in my hands. “Stewardess?” I called, pointing nervously at the light. “It’s a—–!”  She bent over, and cleared the drinks from my neighbor’s tray. “The wing,” she said. “It’s the wing.”

On and on it would go. One of us kids would say something cute and it would become a family “thing.” It would start as an innocently botched idiom or an adorable mispronunciation, like ‘hopcopter” instead of “helicopter.” But too many adult-repeats bludgeoned the charm right out, especially in social settings like playgrounds, prom send-offs, and college tours.

So it’s with ironic delight (hold on, Googling ironic) that I bug my children by canonizing their verbal gaffes and innovations. Just tonight, my daughter proved her faith in adverbs with this newbie: “bootleg-gal-ly.”

Amen!

I’ve written before about my son’s tootats (tattoos). And don’t go looking for me in the aisles of Harris Teeter because I’ll be snaking out bargains at Rotor’s Peter.

Awww!

To retaliate, the kids have zeroed in on my a-kitty’s-heel: my unfamiliarity with pop music. I shrug off their teasing, reminding them that we come from a long line of lyric misinterpretists. In the 70’s, 80’s, 90’s, 00’s, 10’s, and last week, my father regaled bystanders with his grocery schlepping hit, “Cheer Up, Sleepy Jesus” (Jean).  Meanwhile, I’m still shaking my head at my mother’s cover of Prince’s: “Raspberry and Grape.” (beret).

Perhaps it’s my competitive nature that causes me to bungle not only song lyrics, but artist nationalities as well. Take the English (American) musician, Owl City. In his hit, “Bright Lights,” (Fireflies), his pronunciation proves he’s from London (Owatanna, MN). In my interpretive lullaby version for the kids, I lay the accent on thick, just like Owl does. This line really brings it home:

“I like to make myself believe, that planet Earth turns slowly.”  (slowly being said slowly and like this: slaaaow—–ly).

My son’s disgusted moans end with a sardonic “See you in the morning-gah!” Then I say I don’t accept his disrespectful tone, and next time it’s two minutes off his DS.

Lately I’ve learned not to limit myself just to verbal repetition of family “things.” It also works to ambush my kids with written versions of offending phrases. Museum paint booths are ideal for this application (see photo, above).

What’s the pull of bugging children about words, anyway? Two things: 1) The intent is sweet, not mean, and 2) It’s like Monty Python’s tragi-comic Grim Reaper mortality sketch. There’s no escaping the truth that kids will eventually stop saying “M-O-Ms” (M & Ms), and that parents will never, ever keep up with Biebs. To cope, generations have to lovingly remind each other that they’re way, way past their sell-by dates.