Come on now! Scaring Gramma like that isn’t very nice. But, more than anything, it just goes to prove why commas are important. I mean, isn’t it a whole lot kinder to invite Gramma for lunch rather than to eat Gramma for lunch? And doesn’t it give a whole new meaning to “guess what’s for dinner?” instead of “guess who’s for dinner?” I tell you, punctuation makes a difference.

Commas certainly matter, too. I used to ask my young son if he’d bathed. Problem was that my question always came out, “Did you take your bath Matt?”… as if he had some kind of special bathmat that belonged just to him and he was in the habit of taking it.

Pronunciation can be consequential, too. Early on my four-year-old daughter learned this when she went into a bakery and politely ordered a barbarian crème doughnut. Has a different kind of ring to it, wouldn’t you agree?

Some of you know that I spent fourteen years in Japan. If you want a test for why pronunciation is important, just try speaking Japanese. I frequently failed this test when my unpredictable tongue flipped and twisted itself into odd configurations. Take the time I innocently told the clerk in a fan store that I’d like to buy a war. How was I supposed to know that only one letter could make such a difference: senso=war and sensu=fan?

Or the day I asked a clerk if she sold yarn. She thought I said “yawn.” How, for Pete’s sake, was she supposed to deal with this bizarre foreigner who wanted to buy yawns? She handled her dilemma by escaping into the backroom where she broke down in giggles … and never returned.

But, then, of course there was the Japanese man who upon hearing me tell a detailed story from my Austin childhood responded by sighing, “Ah, Keener-san, you have wondahful mammaries!” (Made a heck of a good title for my second book!)

There is always a smart aleck who has to make pronunciation a whole lot more difficult than it already is. That would have to be my firstborn child. Five already tricky syllables were not enough for that precocious boy. Oh, no! Whenever he judged people’s actions to be worthy of his four-year-old praise, he would not cry out “congratulations,” but rather “congratalatulatations!” He also simplified “elevator” by calling it “vadergader.” Sheesh!

Japanese tongues are notoriously inept at pronouncing our English “L’s.” Take the extremely polite gentleman who one day lamented over the heartbreak of gonorrhea. Unable to pronounce such a hopelessly difficult word, he went the easier route by calling it the “crap.” Well, I’d certainly agree that having such a pesky, distasteful disease would be crappy alright. Misconstrued, he meant to say the “clap” which I suppose in the end is just as bad as having the “crap.”

Now, if you’re named Lauren or Larry or, heaven forbid, Lola, it’s best that you do not move to Japan. That is, unless you don’t mind being called Roarin or Rarry or Rora for the rest of your adopted Oriental life. I won’t even get into how my maiden name, McLaughlin, was transformed. Mac-u-roff-u-rin-san quickly became natural to me, just proving how quickly people can adapt when they really want to. Lingo Star would have never made it in Japan.

Another huge issue the Japanese have is with the English letter “i.” Especially when “i” sits alone. In their language there is no “si” without an “h” between the letters. Like Mitsubishi and sushi and washi. Trying to pronounce “si” without the “h” can often have unfortunate results. I was frequently invited to Japanese homes, a rare privilege most foreigners never experience, where the host family would go beyond what was reasonable in preparing for the occasion. Invariably the evening would start off with their offering me a cushion on the woven rice mat floor. “Prease sh-t here,” they would say. Or “Prease do not sh-t there, prease sh-t over here.” Some evenings they had me sh-tting all over the place!

Of course, I had many of my own malapropisms in the Japanese language. I cannot count the times I complimented these gracious people on their delicious soup (misoshiru), which I unknowingly called “misoshiti”? How was I to know that one slight slip of the tongue could make the difference between eating “bean paste soup” and “honorable butt soup?” See what I mean?

There were even more disastrous times when I would seat myself at a sushi counter and order “inu” instead of “uni?” What’s the big deal about transposing one little letter, you ask? Well, it was a big deal. Actually the difference between ordering sea urchin (uni) and raw dog (inu). You had to stay on your toes, I tell you.

I suppose this was equally as weird as a Japanese ordering flied lice or a lump loast when indeed he wanted fried rice and a rump roast. But, Americans, let’s face it. Does our language really have to be so graphic? Just because that roast comes from the cow’s rump, do we actually have to say it … although I’ll be the first to agree that many a rump has lumps!

And, what about the guy who ordered river instead of liver? Or when one lady told me she had a ramp beside her bed instead of a lamp. I could only imagine how much simpler that would be for us Americans with our extra thick mattresses. Yeah, I could use a ramp these days to get into bed.

And as I get older, I’d sure rather be lusty than rusty!

The Japanese would now certainly agree that the United States is in the midst of a great big erection. I, for one, was really excited when I heard that an Irishman from Florida was running. You know him … Marc O’Rubio. Was it my fault he’s Hispanic? But, just imagine. If we do have a woman president, she’ll have to get used to being known in the Land of the Rising Sun as Plesident Hirrary Crinton. I guess, however, some would see that as a measure better than Plesident Tlump!

I’ll never forget the restaurant that opened in my Tokyo neighborhood. It was dignified, stately, splendid! It was French! But doomed from the beginning, it did not succeed among the foreign clientele because of one thing. Its neon sign read, “Le Gland” instead of the intended “Le Grand.” Ish!

Equally disastrous was the merchant who dealt in fine watches. Too bad he also failed. The sign above his store said, “Matches” instead of “Watches.”

I had a Japanese friend who loved to collect butterflies. Only problem was that he was always telling me how he “corrected” them. I never failed to envision him shaking his finger at a bunch of ruffian Monarchs. And how they all looked sitting in the corner wearing dunce caps.

I could go on and on, but I’ll stop here. All this goes to prove just how right our AHS English teachers were when they stressed the importance of polishing our language skills. I, for one, am not going to admit to any more of my mistakes. Riry-rivered coward that I am, my rips are seared.

Peggy Keener of Austin is the author of two books: “Potato In A Rice Bowl” and “Wondahful Mammaries.” Peggy Keener invites readers to share their memories with her by emailing maggiemamm16@gmail.com. Memories shared with Keener may be shared or referenced in subsequent editions of “Full Circle.”