Saturday morning we ran to the farmer’s market so I could pick up some fruit and greens for a salad. (Side note: I discovered kiwi berries, which, if you like kiwi fruit but HATE peeling them, this is the fruit for you – think of grapes that taste like kiwis.)
On the way there, we were breaking one of my pet urban rules: we were walking three-across on the sidewalk. Fortunately, my mom was tuned into our surroundings, and realized someone coming up behind us would need to get around. She stepped aside, grabbed my dad and me by the shoulders, and loudly announced, “Let’s wait a second so this gentleman can pass.”
The thing is, that gentleman had breasts. No sooner were the words out of my mom’s mouth, than my dad and I exchanged an uncomfortable look and my mom clapped her hand over her mouth. We dropped back a few paces and let the woman gain some ground before we spoke again.
Beside me, I could hear my mom whispering something over and over. I strained to hear and made out, “Person. Person. Person…”
“What are you doing?” I asked her.
“I’m practicing,” she told me. “The next time someone comes up I’m just going to say person. It seems safer in this neighborhood.”
Fair enough.
Unfortunately, our challenges with language didn’t stop there.
There was a gelato stand at the farmer’s market, so I asked my mom if she wanted to try to the gelato. “I don’t like gelato,” she proclaimed. After a beat or two, she amended, “Actually, maybe I mean gestapo – I don’t like gestapo. That’s the cold tomato soup, right?”
If they'd used a second lime, it MIGHT look like a swastika.
Whatever – cold tomato soup or cold mean Nazis – I can see why you might not be a fan of either.
pithypants 
No soup for you!