I don’t quite understand why women, especially middle-aged and older, get all huffy and puffy when addressed as “ma’am.” Some are okay with it, others act as if you said “bitch kitchen frying pan” and handed over a recipe for grilled cheese. At last check, ‘ma’am’ does not mean that. At all.
We have a new employee at work – who is a female – and in the course of interacting with an older female student, addressed her as “ma’am,” and promptly received a vaginal punch. Why?
“Don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ Don’t ever call anyone ‘ma’am.’ You can call me missis, or miss. Yes. You can call me miss. Miss will do.” She rambled on and on about it, grieving, as if the new employee had stabbed knitting needles into her eyes.
For that reason, the title ‘ma’am’ was jettisoned from my lexicon long ago. I’ve heard enough lectures over the past ten years about how pejorative it is. I’m more likely to say “hey you” than I am “ma’am,” and if you ever hear me say it, I mean no disrespect. I just need to get your attention, and for unbeknownst reasons, ‘ma’am’ has been struck from the list of respectful attention-getters I can use in discoursing with female society.
What baffles me is why it is so offensive to some. ‘Missis’ and ‘miss’ are short for mistress, and I’m sure that those who prefer it wouldn’t be excited to be referred to as a concubine. On the contrary, ‘ma’am’ is short for ‘madam,’ and originates as a title of respect for a woman who is the head of a household, transliterated from Old French to Middle English. A more contemporary meaning of the word lends itself to prostitution, but has no less of a double meaning than ‘miss.’
After being told enough times to quit it, I started to ask them why. What was so offensive about it? Nothing ever came of the question. “Because it is,” I was told. But one woman filled my ignorance quota for the past decade: “It’s a negative term for black women from when they were slaves.”
Excuse me?
I immediately thought two things: that this was egregiously false, or that it was a common misperception that surrounds the word ‘ma’am.’ Since I’ve never heard of this poor excuse, I concluded that it was egregiously false. Though I don’t wish to become a scholar on its use, a cursory Google search didn’t reveal any racial undertones about it; it’s more common to hear in the Southeastern United States, and by no means references black women. It’s just a word, words have meaning, and the meaning is what you ascribe to it. That woman was simply and flat out wrong, and probably racist.
The only thing that I can think of is a perceived age gap between what a ‘miss’ is: young, unmarried, just starting out in life – and what a ‘ma’am’ is: older, wiser, head of the household. I would question whether the listener actually knows that, though. If she is able to differentiate between the finer points of the two terms, she would probably be less likely to dissent on either’s use. One strongly preferenced over the other would indicate that the actual meaning of the word is lost, and whatever meaning is left has been assigned.
Of course, it could just be a protest over the meaning of “wham, bam, thank you ma’am.”
I recently read an article in which Rachael Ray defended herself against allegations that she used a ghostwriter to author her cookbooks, saying that she gave credit where credit was due, and used the example of Jane Fox’s Famous Tortilla Soup.
I’m not sure which segment of the known universe cares whether or not Rachael Ray’s hand holds the pen. I am sure that the average dimwit reading her cookbook only worries about the ends, not the means. There are those among us who microwave Pop-Tarts, and they are the intended demographic of a Rachael Ray cookbook.
Famous tortilla soup? Who the hell is Jane Fox? (note: I’m still not sure that the linked Jane Fox is the same one who authored the recipe)
‘Famous’ has a certain definition for me, and it is summarized as: “I’d rather be famous than infamous.” Where famous means you’re recognized, infamous means you’re recognized for picking your nose when people and cameras are looking.
I do not recognize Jane Fox’s tortilla soup.
Don’t get me wrong, tortilla soup is tasty, and I’m sure that there are many variations of it floating around in the bowls of the world. I’m also sure that I wouldn’t be able to discern Jane Fox’s tortilla soup from, say, my boss’s tortilla soup, or the person’s down in 219, if he made tortilla soup. He doesn’t, by the way. He just boils curry and eats it by the spoonful. That’s why the hallway smells like sweat and fire. That’s also why he’s ‘infamous.’
The word ‘famous’ implies that the object is universally known, and is recognized both home and abroad. Something or someone that is famous transcends conventional memetics and becomes that which is ‘known.’ Harland Sanders is famous for chicken; you will receive fried chicken that tastes familiar no matter which KFC you visit. Usher is famous for his dance moves and his music; if you attend a concert, you will bear witness to both.
‘Famous’ is also used tritely, to promote something that is not. For example, Jane Fox’s piss poor tortilla soup. In this sense, ‘famous’ is almost universally used to promote something of a personal nature, or what can be perceived as personal: in this example, Jane Fox sharing her ‘famous’ recipe with someone who is actually famous, Rachael Ray.
‘Renown’ is the word to use if you or whatever you’re promoting has actually achieved acclaim and fame; ‘celebrated’ can be used if said object has received an award. ‘Famous’ is cheap, and if someone claims something as such, punch them in the face and become infamous.
Listen: this is not a blog about my cats and how much misery they bring me. I do like to discuss other things and how much misery they bring me. However, these furry tyrants have been doing despicable things all week, starting with busting two glass vases one post prior. I called the Chinese restaurant, but as it turns out, they only do delivery – no pickups.
Every night after work, I find a pile of DVDs on the floor that they didn’t have the courtesy to put back after watching.
Today’s selections:

I didn’t know that they were fans of Roseanne. I’ll start asking questions when I find DVDs on the floor that I don’t own.
A couple of days ago I woke up to find a pack of smokes on the living room floor with chewed up cigarettes all over the place. I mean, drunk people at bars eat cigarettes when they’re about to fall off the stool. I think these beasts were trying to flick a Bic without the benefit of opposable thumbs, which is diabolical considering that I live in a no-smoking apartment. After failing, they tried to turn my Newports into a can of Skoal. What a bunch of hoods.
Last night, I was watching trashy TV and minding my own business. I was eating leftover Chinese food from the aforementioned delivery. I had a delicious iced tea. The cats decided that I had something they wanted:

You know, it’s not as if these deprived kitties don’t have any toys. They have Livestrong bracelets, catnip socks, my tears of misery, some kind of jingly thing they like to push around with their paws, and even a goshdarned ‘kitty treehouse.’ All of that is out the window, and they’d make sure of it if they had opposable thumbs. They want my straw.
One of them took point and went after the food. The other went after the flag. I was trying to eat and fast forward through a commercial at the same time, so I was defeated easily. And, as the drink splattered all over the carpet and the ice skittered across the floor, they ran off into the sunset with my straw, and all I could hear is their bellowing laughter.
Now here we are tonight. We have declared war on each other. I came home to this assault on the bedroom:

On the ground is a picture of Sara and I, which a soothsayer told me means the cats are going to murder us in our sleep. In the foreground is the cloth that was ripped from the stand against the wall. On the ground, though, is something that you can’t see: in The War Against My Wellbeing, they somehow got a hold of tacks and strew them about the bedroom in hopes that I might get tetanus and die.
Fortunately for me, I wear shoes.
Many of you may know that I have a couple of cats, MacGruber and Benson. They’re cute, cuddly little things.

And, from time to time, they do stupid things that make you smile.

But sometimes they just do stupid things.

Such as knock glass vases from high altitudes while you sleep.

They’re going to the Chinese restaurant today.