the new corporate speak for yup…

by santoki

After a week of driving myself into the ground, I did what any self-respecting gal would do.

I ran away from home.

It was off to LBI for me. What ensued was a weekend of companionship, crying, commiseration, and crafting. I napped on the beach and went hard at work on that long over-due suntan. By Sunday, I was more whole than I had been in quite some time. That was, until it happened.

Somewhere around Exit 148, the Professor and I were deep involved in a conversation about class size, students, and next semester’s course load. I asked the Professor what the expectations were for mid-term deliverables. At that point, I needed to duck the spit take of Diet Coke bursting through the Professor’s lips.

“Expectations for mid-term deliverables?!”

Spell check your graffiti

Was that me?! Who talks like that? The Professor called me out, tout de suite. Between my horror and the Professor’s amusement, we figured something out. Since my personal world has been a bit of a wreck, I tossed myself into work. By doing such, I destroyed completely my natural cadence of speech. In part, it’s because I’ve been hanging with way too many Brits. For another, my NYC verbal stylings have been blossoming like tulips in spring.

But for all of these reasons, the greatest culprit is the language of Corporate America. In a land where so many things are unacceptable, where granularity and accountability are king, and where transparency will save the day, I can’t seem to carry on a normal conversation. Not for not trying. The only way I’ve found where I might protect the joy I find in words is to openly validate the kooky.

You see, gentle readers. For all of the street, NYC, hipster, B.S. coding that I’ve been injecting into my adult conversations, I have but one touchstone. My one very special saving grace. That’s right. In this place, the land of my childhood, amongst the voices of home, within throngs of my peeps, I cling to the verbal cues of my new digs. I sing the language that is purely Chicago. Therein, my dear friends, lies my crowning achievement. I have overwhelmed my colleagues, friends, and cubical partners with my use of two words that are unapologetically, unabashedly middle America.

I have infected these jaded New Yorkers with the kooky. From the cosmopolitan continental, to the beaten Bushwick brother, to the sullen Staten Islander, and the angry Astorian, I got them all.

There is little more satisfying than hearing these hardened drawls accidentally uttering my favorite four syllables:

OKIE DOKEY!

Coming to a corporate cube near you.

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