Lunette
As soon as I saw the first def of the word, immediately myne mind's eye brought forth Ye Ole Outdoor toilet. No, silly, not like that, like this. But it always seems that Ye Olde Moon in Ye Olde Outhouse Door is more in pictures/cartoons than in real life. So I dug deeper, and found this. Once again, thanks to the interwebs, after years of pondering life's mystery as to why there's always a moon in the outhouse door, I have found the answer. Interestingly, just this morning I've been listening to why languages have sexed nouns which I've also lost sleep over. Two down in one day!! I have to say, though, that English is such an idiosyncratyque* language, thank the gods we didn't have the whole sexed nouns to contend with, too.
I was going to add a paragraph here about renaming the marshmallows in Lucky Charms starting off with Yellow Lunettes, but evidently they've changed a whole whole lot since I was kid and I don't like change. That's why I'm still on AOL dial-up. Amazingly I don't get the busy signal as much as I used to. Hmmmm, another mystery of life I have to look into.
*Yes, I realize this is a rather idiosyncratyque spelling, but I added it to my work Microsoft dictionary, so it will probably start appearing more often. heh heh heh
Friday, May 4, 2012
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Cachinnate
Cachinnate
I have a feeling that when my friend*
*And when I say 'my friend,' I mean the one friend who reads this. Bless his heart for reading it - it's him, the Holder of My Hand and my faithful reader in Russia. Anyway, I brought the "my friend" up because I'm always fascinated by people who begin a story with "My friend and I..." like they only have one. I find it rather...funny. Not in a cachinnate sort of way, but just in a curious sort of way. If you're going to narrow it down to a specific friend, should I know his/her name? Oh, and my mom. I'm not sure what she thinks of it, though. Everyday I call her and ask her what she thought of that day's entry and she replies "It was different." And then there's an uncomfortable minute or three of silence, and then we talk about The Vampire Diaries and hang up. And when I say one or three minutes, I actually mean four to seven. I know what you're thinking: "Oh, Brie, you most certainly must be taking a ride on the hyperbalization train!" I wish!! I decided to buy a stop watch and time it! Last night was the record breaker, though, at almost eight minutes! Do you know how uncomfortable an uncomfortable pause can be with your mother on the phone after that amount of time? Pretty darned uncomfortable!!! Thing is, my parents are not exactly blameless. I mean really, there we are on Christmas morning, I had just gotten a new milk bottle and clothes pins to play Drop the Clothes Pins in the Milk Bottle. I was just starting to play, in fact, I was doing really well. Seriously, I hadn't gotten this many in in weeks! And a new milk bottle, you imagine how proud my little heart was! So anyway, there we are Christmas morning - I thought there couldn't possibly be any better presents than the one I got. But no!! Why, what's that behind the couch?? No one even noticed it - it was a new Hammond B that Dad had been talking about for months! So we wheeled the organ out from behind the couch, pushed it right up to the Christmas tree and Mom ran upstairs and got her tambourine, and we played our favorite Christmas song!! Well that was just about the best Christmas ever!! You know there was one other one...oh crap, I need to release th
I have a feeling that when my friend*
*And when I say 'my friend,' I mean the one friend who reads this. Bless his heart for reading it - it's him, the Holder of My Hand and my faithful reader in Russia. Anyway, I brought the "my friend" up because I'm always fascinated by people who begin a story with "My friend and I..." like they only have one. I find it rather...funny. Not in a cachinnate sort of way, but just in a curious sort of way. If you're going to narrow it down to a specific friend, should I know his/her name? Oh, and my mom. I'm not sure what she thinks of it, though. Everyday I call her and ask her what she thought of that day's entry and she replies "It was different." And then there's an uncomfortable minute or three of silence, and then we talk about The Vampire Diaries and hang up. And when I say one or three minutes, I actually mean four to seven. I know what you're thinking: "Oh, Brie, you most certainly must be taking a ride on the hyperbalization train!" I wish!! I decided to buy a stop watch and time it! Last night was the record breaker, though, at almost eight minutes! Do you know how uncomfortable an uncomfortable pause can be with your mother on the phone after that amount of time? Pretty darned uncomfortable!!! Thing is, my parents are not exactly blameless. I mean really, there we are on Christmas morning, I had just gotten a new milk bottle and clothes pins to play Drop the Clothes Pins in the Milk Bottle. I was just starting to play, in fact, I was doing really well. Seriously, I hadn't gotten this many in in weeks! And a new milk bottle, you imagine how proud my little heart was! So anyway, there we are Christmas morning - I thought there couldn't possibly be any better presents than the one I got. But no!! Why, what's that behind the couch?? No one even noticed it - it was a new Hammond B that Dad had been talking about for months! So we wheeled the organ out from behind the couch, pushed it right up to the Christmas tree and Mom ran upstairs and got her tambourine, and we played our favorite Christmas song!! Well that was just about the best Christmas ever!! You know there was one other one...oh crap, I need to release th
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Abstruse
Abstruse
So this is the word that best describes me! I knew it had to be out there somewhere. I can't help it; it's just part of who I am. Earlier today on Facebook I posted on a friend's page:
I was born in India to wealthy British parents. I was unwanted by my mother and father, and taken care of primarily by servants, who pacified me as much as possible to keep me out of the way. Spoiled with a temper, I was unaffectionate, angry, rude and obstinate. H1N1 broke out in the manor and killed my parents and many servants. I was discovered alone but alive. After the house was abandoned I was sent to Yorkshire, England to live with my uncle, Archibald Craven.
At first, I was my usual self, sour, disliking the large house, the people within it, and most of all the vast stretch of moor, which seemed scrubby and gray after the winter. I was told that I must stay confined to my two rooms and that nobody would bother much with me and I must amuse myself. Martha Sowerby, my good-natured maidservant, told me a story of the late Aunt Craven, and how she would spend hours in a private garden growing roses. Later, Aunt Craven was killed by an untimely accident, and Uncle Craven had the garden locked and the key buried. I was roused by this story and started to soften my ill manner despite myself. Soon I began to lose my disposition and gradually came to enjoy the company of Martha, Ben Weatherstaff the gardener, and also that of a friendly robin redbreast to whom I attached human qualities. My appetite increased and I found myself getting stronger as I played by myself on the moor. Martha's mother bought me a skipping rope in order to encourage this, and I took to it immediately. My time was occupied by wondering about the secret garden and a strange crying that I could sometimes be heard around the house which the servants ignored or denied.
While exploring the gardens, I came across a badger hole and found a key belonging to the untended garden. I chanced to ask Martha for garden tools, which Martha had delivered by Dickon, her twelve-year-old brother. Dickon and I took a liking to each other, as Dickon had a soft way with animals and a good nature. Eager to absorb his gardening knowledge, I reluctantly let him into the secret of the garden, which he agreed to keep.
That night, I heard the crying again. I followed the noise and, to my surprise, found a small boy my age, living in a hidden bedroom. We discovered we were cousins: he was the son of my uncle; his mother died when he was a baby, and he suffered from an unspecified problem with his spine. I visited every day that week, distracting him from his troubles with stories of the moor, of Dickon and his animals and of the garden. It was decided he needed fresh air and the secret garden, which I finally admitted I had access to. Colin was put into his wheelchair and brought outside into the garden, the first time he'd been outdoors in years.
While in the garden, we were surprised to see Ben Weatherstaff on a ladder looking over the wall. Startled and angry to find us there in his late mistress' garden he admitted he believed Colin to be a cripple. Colin stood up out of his chair to prove him wrong and found that his legs were fine, though weak from disuse.
Colin spent every day in the garden, becoming stronger. We conspired to keep Colin's health a secret so he could surprise his father, who was traveling and mourning over his late wife. As Colin's health improved, his father's mood did as well, and he had a dream of his wife calling him into the garden that made him immediately pack his bags and head home. He walked the outer wall in memory but heard voices inside, found the door unlocked and was shocked to see not only the garden in full bloom with us in it, but his son running. The servants watched as Uncle Craven walked back to the manor, and all were stunned that Colin ran beside him.
So there you have it. In the short time it took you to read my life story, I went from being abstruse to completely transparent. An open book. Out in the open. Open and shut. Clear-cut. Comprehensible. Crystal. Incontrovertible. Perspicuous. Spelled out. Transpicuous. Unambiguous. Uncomplicated. Unequivocal.*
*Or as they say in Russian...ah, never mind, I've done that one already.
So this is the word that best describes me! I knew it had to be out there somewhere. I can't help it; it's just part of who I am. Earlier today on Facebook I posted on a friend's page:
I was born in India to wealthy British parents. I was unwanted by my mother and father, and taken care of primarily by servants, who pacified me as much as possible to keep me out of the way. Spoiled with a temper, I was unaffectionate, angry, rude and obstinate. H1N1 broke out in the manor and killed my parents and many servants. I was discovered alone but alive. After the house was abandoned I was sent to Yorkshire, England to live with my uncle, Archibald Craven.
At first, I was my usual self, sour, disliking the large house, the people within it, and most of all the vast stretch of moor, which seemed scrubby and gray after the winter. I was told that I must stay confined to my two rooms and that nobody would bother much with me and I must amuse myself. Martha Sowerby, my good-natured maidservant, told me a story of the late Aunt Craven, and how she would spend hours in a private garden growing roses. Later, Aunt Craven was killed by an untimely accident, and Uncle Craven had the garden locked and the key buried. I was roused by this story and started to soften my ill manner despite myself. Soon I began to lose my disposition and gradually came to enjoy the company of Martha, Ben Weatherstaff the gardener, and also that of a friendly robin redbreast to whom I attached human qualities. My appetite increased and I found myself getting stronger as I played by myself on the moor. Martha's mother bought me a skipping rope in order to encourage this, and I took to it immediately. My time was occupied by wondering about the secret garden and a strange crying that I could sometimes be heard around the house which the servants ignored or denied.
While exploring the gardens, I came across a badger hole and found a key belonging to the untended garden. I chanced to ask Martha for garden tools, which Martha had delivered by Dickon, her twelve-year-old brother. Dickon and I took a liking to each other, as Dickon had a soft way with animals and a good nature. Eager to absorb his gardening knowledge, I reluctantly let him into the secret of the garden, which he agreed to keep.
That night, I heard the crying again. I followed the noise and, to my surprise, found a small boy my age, living in a hidden bedroom. We discovered we were cousins: he was the son of my uncle; his mother died when he was a baby, and he suffered from an unspecified problem with his spine. I visited every day that week, distracting him from his troubles with stories of the moor, of Dickon and his animals and of the garden. It was decided he needed fresh air and the secret garden, which I finally admitted I had access to. Colin was put into his wheelchair and brought outside into the garden, the first time he'd been outdoors in years.
While in the garden, we were surprised to see Ben Weatherstaff on a ladder looking over the wall. Startled and angry to find us there in his late mistress' garden he admitted he believed Colin to be a cripple. Colin stood up out of his chair to prove him wrong and found that his legs were fine, though weak from disuse.
Colin spent every day in the garden, becoming stronger. We conspired to keep Colin's health a secret so he could surprise his father, who was traveling and mourning over his late wife. As Colin's health improved, his father's mood did as well, and he had a dream of his wife calling him into the garden that made him immediately pack his bags and head home. He walked the outer wall in memory but heard voices inside, found the door unlocked and was shocked to see not only the garden in full bloom with us in it, but his son running. The servants watched as Uncle Craven walked back to the manor, and all were stunned that Colin ran beside him.
So there you have it. In the short time it took you to read my life story, I went from being abstruse to completely transparent. An open book. Out in the open. Open and shut. Clear-cut. Comprehensible. Crystal. Incontrovertible. Perspicuous. Spelled out. Transpicuous. Unambiguous. Uncomplicated. Unequivocal.*
*Or as they say in Russian...ah, never mind, I've done that one already.
Spiel
Spiel
The area in which I grew up used to call curling tournaments bonspiels. Probably still does. Unless they call them tournaments now. Or perhaps bonspiel tournaments, just to cover their bases.* Ironically (or not!) in between bouts - or 'games' as they used to call them - there would be glockenspiel bands that played. Who knew that in a town of 3,000 people up to 10% of the population at any given time would be practically professional on the glockenspiel? Have you ever heard Bohemian Rhapsody played on 12 glockenspiels? Brings a tear to the eye, it does.
But I digress. What I really wanted to discuss was how, after reading the spiel on 'spiel,' it struck me that the word is quite the warhorse. It can describe everything! Thus today I proclaim May 1, 2012 Spiel Appreciation Day, where we do our darnedest to expand the usage of this amazingly complex and underutilized word:
"Yes, I'm hungover - I went on a total spiel last night."
"You know how it is at the holidays. Spiel after spiel - ate so much I thought I would burst."
"The newest Richard Bay spiel opened to mixed reviews."
"We're here at the Both Directions concert where a huge giggle of girls is waiting for the doors to open."**
"Shock the crap out of me, I opened the door to a spiel - naked bodies everywhere."
"The Miss America Spiel will return after these messages!"
"Yep, me and Ma rounded up the whole spiel of cows to be taken away for butcherin'."
Your assignment: what will you do to expand this word's usage? Share it with my other reader!
PS: "Spiel, Chicago, Illinois, 60609"***
*Or 'backsides' if you don;t like sports metaphors.
**Oops, sorry, 'giggle' was meant for a different day.
***Sorry, I realize half my readership won't get the reference, but I'm thinking the other person might.
The area in which I grew up used to call curling tournaments bonspiels. Probably still does. Unless they call them tournaments now. Or perhaps bonspiel tournaments, just to cover their bases.* Ironically (or not!) in between bouts - or 'games' as they used to call them - there would be glockenspiel bands that played. Who knew that in a town of 3,000 people up to 10% of the population at any given time would be practically professional on the glockenspiel? Have you ever heard Bohemian Rhapsody played on 12 glockenspiels? Brings a tear to the eye, it does.
But I digress. What I really wanted to discuss was how, after reading the spiel on 'spiel,' it struck me that the word is quite the warhorse. It can describe everything! Thus today I proclaim May 1, 2012 Spiel Appreciation Day, where we do our darnedest to expand the usage of this amazingly complex and underutilized word:
"Yes, I'm hungover - I went on a total spiel last night."
"You know how it is at the holidays. Spiel after spiel - ate so much I thought I would burst."
"The newest Richard Bay spiel opened to mixed reviews."
"We're here at the Both Directions concert where a huge giggle of girls is waiting for the doors to open."**
"Shock the crap out of me, I opened the door to a spiel - naked bodies everywhere."
"The Miss America Spiel will return after these messages!"
"Yep, me and Ma rounded up the whole spiel of cows to be taken away for butcherin'."
Your assignment: what will you do to expand this word's usage? Share it with my other reader!
PS: "Spiel, Chicago, Illinois, 60609"***
*Or 'backsides' if you don;t like sports metaphors.
**Oops, sorry, 'giggle' was meant for a different day.
***Sorry, I realize half my readership won't get the reference, but I'm thinking the other person might.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Pantagium
Pantagium
So how cool would it be to fly, right? I only fly as a passenger, though I did try to become an air hostess once. Unfortunately, I flew all the way over to India, learned Hindi, made it through the ten-month Frankfinn Air Hostess training program, and then discovered that my familial tremor pretty much made it impossible for me to do things like pass cups of coffee over someone's lap without sloshing on their Haggar's, as it were.
So all that time, money, and energy down the drain.
I shoulda known, though. I guess it takes a lot for me to learn something, cuz a year before going to India I had spent six years at Yale medical school, sitting through all those endless classes, writing those endless papers, learning those endless words! Then I go in for my first practice surgery. Picture it, I had learned everything I needed to know to be a top-notch surgeon. I was now under the bright light of the operating room, being watched by a hundred classmates, countless teachers, and the country's best surgeons. And it happened. No matter how I held the tweezers, even holding the tweezers with two hands like they showed us in the 'short cuts' class, I invariably made the stupid patient's nose light up red and a screeching noise was made. SO embarrassing!! I couldn't believe it - six years of medical schooling down the drain just cuz I couldn't successfully take out some moron's Bread Basket. Stupid Yale School of Medicine and their stupid tests.
And so here I am. A barely employed technical writer cum librarian tech cum blogger. But whacha gonna do. I just keep lighting the light, changing the sheets, writing the student-loan checks (oy!!), and loving He Who Must be Obeyed. What the heck. Not a bad life.
So how cool would it be to fly, right? I only fly as a passenger, though I did try to become an air hostess once. Unfortunately, I flew all the way over to India, learned Hindi, made it through the ten-month Frankfinn Air Hostess training program, and then discovered that my familial tremor pretty much made it impossible for me to do things like pass cups of coffee over someone's lap without sloshing on their Haggar's, as it were.
So all that time, money, and energy down the drain.
I shoulda known, though. I guess it takes a lot for me to learn something, cuz a year before going to India I had spent six years at Yale medical school, sitting through all those endless classes, writing those endless papers, learning those endless words! Then I go in for my first practice surgery. Picture it, I had learned everything I needed to know to be a top-notch surgeon. I was now under the bright light of the operating room, being watched by a hundred classmates, countless teachers, and the country's best surgeons. And it happened. No matter how I held the tweezers, even holding the tweezers with two hands like they showed us in the 'short cuts' class, I invariably made the stupid patient's nose light up red and a screeching noise was made. SO embarrassing!! I couldn't believe it - six years of medical schooling down the drain just cuz I couldn't successfully take out some moron's Bread Basket. Stupid Yale School of Medicine and their stupid tests.
And so here I am. A barely employed technical writer cum librarian tech cum blogger. But whacha gonna do. I just keep lighting the light, changing the sheets, writing the student-loan checks (oy!!), and loving He Who Must be Obeyed. What the heck. Not a bad life.
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