You Say Turkey, I Say Tofurkey

It took five or six minutes to place the voice down the booth at Starbucks. Peter Sellers? Not as nasal. Rumpole? Not as blustery. But it had to be one of those cartoonishly British on-air personalities. Mr. Belvedere? Maybe. I don’t really remember Mr. B’s speech pace and inflections, only that he was a TV butler. Is it ethnocentric to characterize a British voice as butlerish? Yes, I think so. Forget Geoffrey from “Fresh Prince,” then. And that Remains of the Day guy. In the end, I settled on the moderator from “My Word!,” the Balderdash-meets-Linguistics 101 game show on NPR/BBC. I’d need chirpy theme music to be certain.

The elderly woman at the corner table sounded exactly like Ex Who Shall Not Be Named’s mother, who in turn sounded like every loveable Southern grandma on Stouffer’s chicken commercials.

The cashier who handed over my cappuccino (whole milk, cinnamon on top) spoke with no particular accent or clip. Perhaps he’s the standard voice, against which other voices are measured. If everyone sounds like somebody, then there has to be an original “voice,” right?

When my boyfriend tries to imitate my accent, he comes off as a cross between Scarlett O’Hara and Foghorn Leghorn. I pin him as a mix of NPR’s “Car Guys” and Vinny from “Doogie Howser.” We’ve been dating long enough for me to call him my “boyfriend,” but we haven’t reached the point at which flirtatious teasing can be dropped. “Mind if I paahk my cahh in this lot?” I ask him. “Well, fiiiine, Ellie Mae,” he replies. “You jest do thayt.”

I shouldn’t have been at Starbucks on Monday morning. Last week I vowed a 7-to-6 Thanksgiving holiday work schedule, in anticipation of my early-December deadlines. I’d rise at 6; shower; dress; email briefly; start work at 7, and pause only for an hour-long lunch break. Today I stuck to the plan (more or less...silly Friendster), but Monday I needed a prescription refill, and Barnes and Noble/Starbucks shares a shopping complex with CVS. Should I stay and sip? Should I drive back to my apartment and retrieve an ego development study? Best American Essays 2005 perched right next to the java: bright red cover, David Sedaris beckoning on the inside. I could afford an hour. Have you heard David Sedaris’s voice? No comparison.

And I’m glad that I chose the Starbucks booth over my computer desk. Sometimes I do need to hear voices other than the nagging ones in my head. My inner voice alternates between Madeleine Albright and Fran Drescher. “Everything is okay, dear,” it says, with a faint Eastern European accent. “This day has been good, and one mustn’t worry about the future.” Then, Fran takes over: “My gawd, can’t you stay focused for a second? Jeez! Get back to work!” Fran does not go to Starbucks, apparently. Or if she does, I have mistaken her for someone else.

There are certain voices I don’t enjoy: Fran; the FOX sportscasters who wake me at 6; my own, echoed on my cell phone as I’m trying to chat with my mother. Mom and I started sounding alike several years ago, in accordance with the “turning into my mother” stereotype. But am I borrowing her “Well, gosh!” and “anyyyywayyy,” or is she taking mine? The reception is too fuzzy to tell.

In any event (anyyywayyy): Happy Thanksgiving. I say “Thanksgiving,” but Boyfriend claims “Thanksgiving” has the proper emphasis. We’ll reach an agreement around the time he stops mock-requesting mint juleps.