Speaking My Language

After nearly 20 years in the south, I've lost a lot of my nawthern speech patterns, but one thing I can't shake is "sneaker." No self-respecting southern says, "sneakers." They say, "tennis shoes" regardless of what they'll actually be doing in the shoes. Example:

"I'm going for a run."
"Great! Don't forget to tie the laces on your tennis shoes!"  

I have this fear that someday I'll be in a Waffle House far OTP and I'll slip and tell the kids to get their muddy sneakers off the bench. Whatever Miranda Lambert song that was playing will screech to a halt, there will be an ominous silence, and the fry cook will stop smothering, covering, chunking, and dicing the hashbrowns, stalk over to my table and shout, "Out! We don't serve Yankees here!" And he'll point at the door with his enormous spatula and I'll slink away like a cowardly dog.

Basically, it'll be like that scene in Inglorious Basterds at the bar when Michael Fassbender (British, but pretending to be a Nazi) orders three glasses of scotch and holds up his hand:

and gives away that he's not German because apparently in Germany they indicate three by holding up their thumb, index and middle fingers. So, my Waffle House encounter will be like that, except no one will get shot. However, I do think that Diane Kruger may be there, smoking cigarettes and shaking her head.