Crock Me Up

The other night my landlord, out of the blue, asked me, "Can I have some of your country crock?" I hesitated, thinking he had mistaken me for some backwoods bumpkin full of bunk. I tried desperately to come up with some pithy yarn, like, "Oh I've been milking pure chocolate milk from my cow Henry for seventeen years now." But then it dawned on me: we share a refrigerator and, speaking of things dairy, he just wanted some of my Country Crock vegetable oil spread (I call it butter, whether or not I believe it is).

Got me thinking about the word crock, though. While I'm sure some of my acquaintances would say I'm completely familiar with the word crock, it isn't a word I use much in everyday speech. Balderdash or the less pedantic bullshit being my preferred nomenclature for something that doesn't smell right. But I have a good friend who's always using the phrase, "that's a crock of baloney," most of the time not directed at me (I can't stand baloney/b-o-l-o-g-n-a, though come to think of it, it might be more tolerable to my taste buds with a healthy Country Crock lathering). Anyway, thanks to her, I have developed a fondness for the word crock.

Until the other night, though, I always thought of crock in very general, certainly not geographic, terms. I have spent precious little time of my life in a country/rural setting, so the chocolate milk cow is the best country crock I can come up with, but I'm a child of and life-long denizen of suburbia, so I think I'm extremely qualified to expound on suburban crock. And so, here are just a few of the more blatant instances of suburban crock I have overheard in my lifetime. See how many you're guilty of.

"I clean my garage once a month."

"George constructed our deck out of the kids' used Popsicle sticks."

"Billy's upstairs doing his homework."

"I've never seen that Little League ump make a bad call."

"We love hosting our book club almost as much as we love reading everyone else's selections."

"These fake-wood-sided station wagons will never go out of style."

"I didn't go near that keg at the block party, dad, I swear."

"My fifty-five minute one-way commute is the perfect time to do some meditating."

"Really? My gosh, I thought it was a real Christmas tree."

"I love what you've done with the yard."

"Our daughter Alicia's terrified of needles. You'll never see a tattoo on her."

"With that Sears pre-fab shed in the backyard, I feel like we're living in the country."

"Country Crock? No, but you can have some of this butter I churned myself down in my workroom."

Joe Cocker-Dear Landlord