Who Are You Trying To Fool?

 

Let’s face it, we all have our insecurities. It’s just that some people are better at covering it up than others. And some of us wear it like an ill-fitting suit of clothes.

 You wonder if Donald Trump, for all his bluster, plastering his moniker on all kinds of national treasures and insulting anyone who dares doubt his omniscience, has his private doubts. I’d love to have surveillance gear in his gold-plated White House bathroom, to capture those personal moments before he hits the sack in his gold-plated bed. Exhausted from his regular late-night routine of posting several dozen racist and childish memes to his Truth Social account, what would he tell himself while washing the orange spray tan off his face?

        “President of the U.S.A.? Leader of the free world? You’re a joke, big guy. A chubby, blathering bozo who nobody really respects. The late-night comedians are right-on-the-money. Who are you kidding?”

        Anyone who performs for a living, be it actor, singer, dancer, ventriloquist or politician can tell you that you live with the constant fear of being exposed. I spent more than 40 years as a radio personality and I know I got up each morning and went to work, fully expecting someone to present compelling evidence that I was a fraud. My primary emotion when I retired was “whew, I got away with it.” After all, I only got into the broadcasting business because it was a way to make a paycheck without breaking a sweat or having to do any deep thinking. Mission accomplished. But to this day, I fully expect to run into someone who listened to me and takes great pleasure in sharing his/her review of my talents.

        “Man, you really sucked pond water!”

Well, yeah. But there were people silly enough to pay me well to suck pond-water. And pond-water is an acquired taste. 

        These days, my self-doubt centers on getting old. Grey hair? Memory lapses? Constipation? Who knew life would fly by so fast? And what, exactly is an aneurysm anyway?

My self-scolding these days centers on things I meant to accomplish but never got around to. Selling a novel to a major publisher. Seeing my screenplay made into a movie. Pitching in the deciding game of the World Series. Losing 20 pounds. (Oh, okay 50 pounds) and dancing with the Chippendales. After all, I wouldn’t look that bad in a Speedo.

But I can be excused for my underachieving. I had other pressing priorities. Golf. Binge watching British mysteries on Teevee. And I’m fairly certain that computer cribbage game on my phone wasn’t going to play itself.

Name That Car

 

Carolyn J. Rose

When I was a kid, the family vehicles had no names. They were referred to in

generic terms. “The truck.” “The Ford.” “The blue car.” “That piece of crap

_____ (insert make and model of your choice).”

When driving up a steep hill or in snow, my father sometimes used terms of

endearment. “Come on, baby, you can do it.” “That’s it, honey.”

If a vehicle failed to start, sputtered to a stop, or slid into a ditch, he used

colorfully descriptive profanity picked up in World War II. #$?!#

 (And, no, I won’t provide examples of the nouns and adjectives.)

In retrospect, I owned several cars that cried out for names—humorous,

flattering, or unfortunate. But the VW bug with fading salmon paint, the

Datsun F-10, and the Ford Escort remained nameless until they went to the

wrecking yard or on to other owners.

And then I met a man with a Monte Carlo he’d named Yvonne Dee (Remember

Lily on The Munsters?) 

The mental door of imagination opened. I married him. And

from then on my cars had names. Moby Grape. Inkspot. Windfall. Big Red

(now named Rosalita by new owners who, as you may have guessed, are

huge Springsteen fans).

When I admitted to friends that I name my cars, I was often met with scoffing

disbelief. But sometimes I found kindred spirits. A friend named her car

Bluebaru. Others ride around in cars named Buckey and Poppy. My sister-in-

law takes her canines to their favorite haunts driving Dog Car. My husband’s

Leaf is named Erikson.

My favorite, though, is the name given to a car owned by parents of a friend

decades ago: Leapin’ Lena. She (and, yes, I tend to assign genders to cars)

earned the name because too much sudden pressure on the gas pedal resulted

​in a leap and a lean. I think she would have been a terrific car to convey a

dozen clowns to the center ring at a circus.

The Dreaded Afternoon Nap of Childhood

 Carolyn J. Rose

 

As a child I loathed naps. In the first place, a nap was never my idea. Napping was a concept foisted on me by adults. The take-a-nap command came at inconvenient times, often in the middle of a game or an argument. Naps involved washing grimy feet or taking off shoes that needed to be tied again. Naps often took place atop a chenille bedspread that created telltale facial indentations. And finally a no-more-backtalk-from-you nap involved close-contact supervision.

 

Usually that meant lying beside my grandmother. She was a world-class napper. Once she removed her dentures, loosened her corset, and slid off the black shoes that were standard grandmother footwear in the early 1950s, she’d fall asleep before I could recite the alphabet. If I had breath to do that while caught in a grip stronger than a junkyard mechanical claw. Escape—without gnawing off body parts—was impossible. And, believe me, I considered gnawing. Especially when the snoring began.

 

My grandmother was a big believer in modesty and what I now call “ladylike-itude.” Consequently, she would never admit to the sound effects she created while asleep. But, trust me, their variety and volume never failed to amaze. Had we lived near the ocean, she could have stood in for a malfunctioning fog horn.

 

Trapped, I’d lie there counting flowers on the wallpaper or finding birds in the plaster swirls on the ceiling. And I’d constantly remind myself of the reward for serving time in nap prison—milk and cookies.

 

But, let’s flash forward seven decades. Now it’s my aging body creating a symphony of sounds, including snoring. I own it. I admit to it. But I still hesitate—if only for a few seconds—to sleep during daylight hours when my husband is awake to hear. Never mind that he could snore for the USA in Olympic competition, I can’t escape my early training in modesty and denial.

 

But my aging body insists on rest periods—a few minutes to slow down, sit, or maybe snatch a nap. So I shrug embarrassment aside and head for the loveseat. After much trial and error, I’ve established the optimum sleep-inducing position and accrued nap-enchancing accessories. Those include a fluffy blanket to cover my feet, a not-too fluffy pillow for my head, and a size-too-large hoodie. Pulling the hood down over my eyes means there’s no need to pull the shades and make neighbors wonder what I’m up to.

 

I quickly cataloged types of naps: the doze, the snooze, sleep surfing, out like a light, and down for the count. What took longer was learning how to tell when a nap was over. Aside from a pressing call of nature, ringing phone, pinging text, whining dog, or a knock at the door, there was often no reason to rise. Then, with a prompt from my stomach, I recalled that time-honored, nap-concluding reward—milk and cookies.

Lovely Pants

 

Today’s blog features the juxtaposition of two supposedly random events. (I’m suspicious since I believe there are really no coincidences.)

The first is the recent Christmas concert held by the choir in which I proudly hold the position of “the chubby grey-haired baritone in the back row". I’m happy to report I sang most of the notes nearly on-key and, in several instances, in the places they were intended to fall. In addition, I sang the Mendelssohn number, entirely in German, without once shouting “Jahwohl Mein Herr!!!”

Among the songs we trilled during the show was one bouncy melody called “Lovely Chance,” which celebrated the happy side of inevitability. More on this later.

The second event was my wife gifting me with a pair of trousers for Christmas. They are greatly appreciated and really quite lovely.

 Lovely Pants

If your mind is making the same connections the 8-year-old child who lives inside my brain did, you’ll probably see this coming. Yep. “Lovely Chance” got Barry Manilowed into “Lovely Pants.” In theory, (if I could coerce anyone into singing it with me) it would go something like this.

Oh lovely pants what can I do?

To stuff my big tush into you.

No to mention all my rest,

Maybe if I just hold my breath.

Lovely Pants, Lovely Pants,

Lovely Pants, Oh lovely pants!

Gifted by my lovely wife,

I'm quite sure they'll change my life

Wearing them I’ll look so svelte,

I need two more notches in my belt,

Lovely Pants, Lovely . . .

(and so on. Maybe a guitar solo would work here)

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.