A word or two if I might

 Nerdvana – “a state of perfect happiness for nerdy or geeky people”

Which is kinda my home turf. I’m a word guy. Which partially explains my 40 plus year career as a semi-professional pronouncer on broadcast radio. The other part of the explanation centers on my butt-laziness and desire to make a living without breaking a sweat. I am also one of America’s foremost amateur etymologists. (Contrary to popular belief, Etymology is not the study of grubs and garden slime) It’s the study of the origin of words and the way in which their meanings have changed throughout history.

Some words are just fun to say. I’ll never forget when I first heard the word “kumquat” as a kid and spent the next two weeks working it into every conversation. It annoyed the hell out of my fourth-grade teacher. “Oh, Mrs. Young, I think Billy just fired off a smelly kumquat.” Or “Mrs. Young, the product of 47 times 23 is kumquat.” She ended up making me look up the meaning of “kumquat” and write it on the blackboard numerous (kumquat) times.

In a recent telephone conversation with my friend Steve, I called our get together a “palaver”. He chuckled, said he liked the word and offered up “snollygoster.” I had to admit that his word was more fun to pronounce than mine. Just to keep my etymology credentials current I’ll tell you that “palaver” comes from the Portuguese word palavra which simply means word or talk. “snollygoster” describes an unprincipled but shrewd person, usually a politician. Gosh, what Washington D.C. resident could that possibly describe?

In the interest of making this blog interactive, I’m going to offer 10 words that are just fun to work into an otherwise unrelated conversation. These are guaranteed to accrue compliments or, alternatively, invitations to take yourself to another room. They are listed in no particular order of importance.  

10: Snood: An ornamental hairnet or fabric bag worn over the hair at the back of a woman's head: “Say, Agnes, you’re really rocking that snood!”

9:  Bumfuzzle: This is a word that was retired from the language much too soon. It means to confuse, perplex or fluster someone.  

8.  Dipthong: No, this is not sexy lingerie worn by a clueless dork. Although maybe it should be. It actually means a sound formed by the combination of two vowels in a single syllable. Such as coin, or loud. See why I prefer the lingerie definition?

7: Kerfuffle This one just rolls off the tongue. It means an argument or small spat. 

6: Flibbertigibbet: Describes someone who talks a lot or who is a little silly. The word seemed to appear fairly regularly on my job reviews.

5: Bloviate:  One of my all-time favorites. And no, it isn’t related to intestinal distress. It’s actual definition is “to talk at length”, especially in a pompous or boastful way. It could easily describe the same politician as the “snollygoster.”

4: Yoink: No, I’m not trying to pile on the unnamed resident of the White House whose initials are D.T. “Yoink” is actually a verb meaning to grab or take quickly.

3: Codswallop: Another word that should come out of retirement. It means words or ideas that are foolish or untrue. Which also describes much of the content of my radio broadcasts.

2: Bazinga: A catchphrase used to indicate a trick or prank has been played. The modern equivalent might be “SNAP!!!”

1: Higgledy-piggledy: Sounds like a kid’s game, doesn’t it. “Billy’s the “higgledy-piggledy.” He has to sleep in the slop trough tonight!”

I’m sure a google search (much like the one I just conducted) will bring you more fun words to say out loud in mixed company. I’m eager to hear what impact our little exercise in etymology will wreak on your social standing.

 

 

  

The hicking f---ups

 

by Michael Nettleton

Isn’t the internet wonderful?

(For those who didn’t pick up the sarcasm, you may want to check the batteries in your irony-detection alarm. They may be running low.)

But seriously. The internet eliminates the need to go out on the street, flag down total strangers and ask them for medical advice. (Depending on what part of town you hit, the answers can be interesting and/or bizarre)

For example: I’ve got hiccups. Long term hiccups. Like a week and counting. They’re not painful, just annoying and psychologically debilitating. They sometimes let up for short periods, then reappear. To quote Winnie the Pooh, “Oh bother!!!” I’m headed to my primary care physician today to ask her advice.

My unqualified, unsolicited online advisors have counseled me to (a) hold my breath for 3 minutes (as if) (b) gobble a spoonful of sugar, (peanut butter, chopped jalapeno, your favorite vile substace, et al) (c) Stand on my head and pant like a chihuahua on a hot day (d) join a chronic hiccups support group and get a t-shirt.

For the record, I’ve tried most of the online advice to no avail.

In trying to negotiate my health care providers automated telephone system to set up an appointment with my primary care doctor, I found myself explaining my condition to a nurse-triage representative. She urged me to go to the emergency room post haste.

        I considered it briefly. But then I visualized myself in a scrum with other patients. (voice of a nurse Ratched character) “Yes, Mr. Forsgren, I’m sure the injuries you sustained going through the winshield in that head on collision are painful. And Mrs. Clatter, so sorry about that heart attack. But we have priorities. And Mr. Nettleton here has a week-long case of the hiccups.

        I took a pass.

 So, I’m scheduled to see my doctor this afternoon. A smart, highly competent, trained medical professional who will offer me some scientifically-proven advice on how to address my singultus problem. (maybe my emergency room paranoia might be quelled if I use the scientific name for the condition)

        I'm visualizing the scene in the doctor's office.

        “So, Mr. Nettleton, have you tried breathing into a brown paper bag filled with acai berries? Chugging avocado juice? Or standing on your head in a corner and wiggling your toes repeatedly?

        I’ll report (hic) back.   

 

The Contents of My Not-So-Presidential Library

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

I never ran for office. Okay, sure, my high school classmates voted me Most Likely to Succeed and Class Clown. But, in my defense, it was a small school. And, for the record, I didn’t know I’d been nominated.

 
I don’t intend to run for office. Any office. Ever. So, I won’t hit you up for a donation. I won’t urge you to form a committee to build a library commemorating my life (long) and accomplishments (few). Nevertheless, I did some research (approximately three minutes worth) into what such a library contains. Then I put some thought (a whopping four minutes) into what I have to display.

 

First: Official Documents. Boxes in the garage are stuffed with tax returns, real estate transactions, utility bills, and rejection letters. I also have my birth certificate, passport, divorce decree, second marriage license, college diploma, substitute teacher certification, car registration, and the latest lab results from my health care provider. Compared to executive orders, details of tariff negotiations, and records of phone calls to world leaders, that’s pitiful. But, hey, my cholesterol level is down.

 

Second: Personal Papers. I can toss in the 20+ novels I’ve written, correspondence, and recipes. Note # 1: These are complete recipes. I’m not that person, the one who agrees to share but intentionally leaves out a key ingredient. Note # 2: I long ago burned letters admitting I inhaled. Note # 3: I’ll include no exchanges with the guy in the classic Thunderbird.

 

Third: Photos and Recordings. Shots of me as a scrawny month-old, red-faced bit of humanity will be here. If you’re curious about dogs and cats I’ve lived with, you’ll see their photos. You can listen to my favorite tunes, music from before the disco error. (No, I did not intend to type era.) I’ll share shots of my vacations and a video of the inside of our sewer drain. As a bonus, I’ll enlarge photos from my most recent colonoscopy.

 

Fourth: Physical Objects. I have a nifty collection of garden art acquired at thrift stores, furniture my father built, and a ten-year-old SUV. (Only 42,000 miles on it, in case you’re interested.) I’ll also include that stack of overdue books, soaps and shampoos lifted from hotels, nubby socks I intend to wear one more time, and two pairs of jeans I might squeeze into after the next recession. 

Fifth: Educational Resources. This section will feature an interactive display giving you an opportunity to win gift shop coupons by correctly guessing my favorite adult beverages and cheesy snacks. I’ll also post a map indicating the location of said gift shop as well as the snack bar, restrooms, and, most important, the exit. Not that you’ll need it. If I parked the car outside, all this should fit in a building only slightly larger than a bouncy castle. And, trust me, a visit to a bouncy castle would be a lot more entertaining.

Sensory Overload in Aisle Nine

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

While grocery shopping recently I found an aisle blocked by an elderly man. Hunched over his empty basket, he studied a slip of paper with the intense concentration that cracked the Enigma Code. I waited. He remained motionless. I executed a U-turn for the chip aisle.

 20 minutes later I saw him again. He was on the move, but still squinting at his list. In his basket was a single can of beans.

 The next day, I wondered if he was still roaming the aisles. A day later I imagined him as a modern-day version of Charlie, the doomed Boston MTA commuter immortalized in a Kingston Trio song.

 While you’re humming that song about the man who never returned, or perhaps finding it on YouTube, I’ll get to the first point of this essay. There are a lot of older men—and probably women as well—who could use help navigating supermarket aisles. Maybe their partners abruptly handed off shopping duties, leaving them struggling to decipher handwriting, locate items, and bring home the correct brand and size. Maybe divorce, or even death, cast them adrift in a sea of selections. Struck dumb by the vast number of possibilities, vision blurs, steps falter, senses overload. They become paralyzed with indecision.

 (But wait. Let’s go back to the MTA for a moment. Has anyone else wondered why Charlie’s wife managed to hand him a sandwich but not the coins for the exit fee? Was this shoddy thinking, or was their marriage on the rocks?)

 Supermarket paralysis, a friend insists, affects men more than women. Men, he claims, are genetically programmed to hunt large game and women to gather nuts and berries. Women therefore excel at distinguishing small details and remembering where to find soup or celery. Or, perhaps women are more familiar with the terrain and more accustomed to coping with varying layouts and constant tides of new products and packaging.

 (But let’s return to the MTA for another moment. If Charlie couldn’t get off the train to get to work and earn money, how did his wife pay for sandwich makings?)

 Now to my second point: I see an opportunity for supermarkets to tap the sensory-overload market by establishing special shopping hours. Employees might supply maps or crash courses in the use of shopping apps. Stores might provide a place for shoppers to meet, compare lists, share tips, and even strike up friendships.

(One more return to the MTA and that sandwich. Was it the same every day? A pickle on the side? Chips? A can of cola?)

 

Okay, too much overthinking. Perhaps that man in the supermarket wasn’t paralyzed with indecision. Perhaps he was simply lingering to enjoy time away from home.

 And maybe that was Charlie’s intention. After all, he put only 10 cents in his pocket. Not enough for the exit fee. And certainly not enough for a return ticket.

Think about it.

While you're pondering, you can paste the link below into your browser if you're in the market to make MTA by the Kingston Trio your next earworm. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7Jw_v3F_Q0

 

The Colors of My Life

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

Many of the photographs from my early childhood (late 1940s and on into the 1950s) are in black and white. So I’m not surprised that my mental snapshots are also in shades of black, white, gray, and sometimes muted greens and reds. There is also pink in a variety of shades because my grandmother, who sewed many of clothes, believed firmly that boys wore blue and girls wore pink. (She also made everything a size too large and a few inches too long because I was sure to grow into it. But let’s not go back to that land of schoolyard embarrassment.)

 

My clearest memory of a color beyond the traditional blues (navy and powder) selected for my brother’s wardrobe, involves the discovery of a shard of robin’s egg dropped beside a dirt road. I stared at it for long moments and then hunted for other pieces but found none. (Robins may eat shells or carry them some distance from the nest.) Disappointed, I took it home and put it on a shelf in my room. Later, when I could be trusted (but not far) with a paint brush, I slathered an attempt at matching that color on my bedroom walls.

 

Perhaps it was that same year when I marveled at the deep blue of the Colorado summer sky. Don’t talk to me about how sunlight is scattered and why the sky appears blue. I know what I know. “Bluer than can be believed,” I called it. Photographs couldn’t capture the depth of the color, but it imprinted on my brain and caused me to fall deeper in love with all shades of blue.

 

Cobalt

Azure

Lapis

Sapphire

Cornflower

 

When it came time to paint or repaint, my choice was always along the blue spectrum. No matter that others indicated by their expressions or comments or complaints that they were done with blue. Only occasionally did I cave, going for silvery gray, greenish gray, or an off-white barely smoke-like shade of gray. Once I even made the daring choice of—are you ready?—apricot.

 

It was a brief romance, and one without chemistry or electricity.

 

And then it was back to blue. This is, after all, my life.

To Mudgeon or not to Mudgeon?

    My wife has accused me of being a curmudgeon. She’s even gone so far as to buy me (and insist I wear) a t-shirt captioned “Captain Curmudgeon” with an amusing (snort) caricature splayed across the front. But am I really a curmudgeon? I decided the first step would be to consult the folks at the Oxford Dictionary as to the actual definition. 

cur·mudg·eon /kərˈməj(ə)n/ noun 1. a bad-tempered person, especially an old one. 

YOU KIDS GET THE %$#&^ OFF MY LAWN!!!

Okay, okay, I’ll own up to the “old” part of the definition. I have been around the sun 76 times. (And bought a souvenir key chain at the gift shop.) I’m admittedly no spring chicken. 

    

But “bad tempered”? I beg to frickin differ!!! I think I’m perfectly even tempered. After all, I made no attempt to burn Mar-a-Lago to the ground when “he who shall not be named” finagled his way into the White House a second time. And no matter what egregious muckery Elon Musk has perpetrated on any given day, I have yet to spray paint the words “Sieg Heil!!!” on anyone’s Tesla. 

    I do confess, as the years stack up, little things that shouldn’t raise my temperature annoy the hell out of me. Such as:

• The guy in front of us in line at the recycling center, as we waited to turn in one expired cell phone, felt it necessary to carefully exacto knife all 79 cardboard boxes he had transported there in the back of his pickup. A glance back would have alerted him that he was holding up the line. But did he? Not on your life. 

• The fact that I have to learn yet another song in Latin for my community chorale concert. “Laudate eum in timpano et choro.” Or words to that effect. After two choir concerts with Latin lyrics, I feel supremely confident I could go back to ancient Rome and confidently order a McCleopatraburger. 

• Since we’re on music, pet peeve 3 is songs where the title appears nowhere in the song. Examples? “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen. “Baba O’ Riley” the Who, “A Day in the life” by the Beatles. And worst of all the Jefferson Airplane’s “3/5 of a mile in 10 seconds” in which they sing the entire song and then, at the end, Marty Balin shouts (for no apparent reason) “3/5 of a mile in 10 seconds.” I don’t know what drugs they were using but I’ll take a hard pass. 

• Young women (with the occasionally male exception) who croon “purrrrrfect” after taking your order at a restaurant. As we all know, pobody’s nerfect. 

• Guys who equate their manhood with how badly they need a muffler job on their “tricked-out” little Mitsubishi. (Or insert your favorite noisy, smelly rackety car here.)  

• Pedestrians who hold a cell phone 3 inches from their face while they cross the street mid-block. The last thing in the world I want is for someone to plow into a screen-junky slacker. Which is why I shriek “pay attention future corpse” as I drive by them.  

• People who can’t remember their PIN number when paying for stuff at the supermarket with a debit card.  

Oh, wait, that’s me. Never mind.

 

The Norovirus Diet

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

On the plus side, catching the norovirus is a sure way to lose weight. I’m down three pounds in two days—just in time to get into the summer wardrobe.

 

A bout of this virus can also make you lose your appetite for some of the favorite foods you ate in the hours before you found yourself doing the tight-cheek tango to the bathroom. In my case, those were foods I should steer clear of—cake and cookies and cream cheese, fried shrimp, creamy salad dressing, and all manner of chips in crackly packaging. Yes, cheesy snacks.

 

And if you’re looking for a clean-out similar to that achieved before your last colonoscopy, here it is.

 

On the minus side there’s the nausea, sometimes only a vague feeling and sometimes a full-body, full-on experience.

 

There’s also the uncertainty. Do I lean over that porcelain bowl? Or do I sit? From sad experience, I’ve concluded that either choice can be the wrong one. But I see an opportunity for an inventor to create a bit of bathroom “furniture” that would somehow allow a norovirus victim to do both simultaneously.

 

And then there’s that strange stomach symphony of sounds, a clash of rumbling and grumbling playing at a pitch never before heard in my lifetime. At times I’m concerned I’ll set off the sensors monitoring for volcanic activity from Mt St Helens. And if I were to submerge myself in the Columbia, there’s a good chance that migrating gray whales off the coast would pause and try to decipher the gurgling message from my stomach as it works to expell the virus.

 

Unfortunately, there’s no magic bullet to cure this crap. (Pun intended.) Fortunately, the worst of it lasts only 2 or 3 days. Days, I might add, which seem to stretch on endlessly as I swill electrolyte-balancing drinks and nibble an occasional cracker.