BOGO or Bobo?

A whole lexicon of acronyms is multiplying faster than I can keep up.

I thought that teaching high school students, teaching college students, and a penchant for action films and hard rock music would keep me abreast of Generation I's lingo, but I seem to be falling behind.

One night while indulging my guilty pleasure of watching Investigation Television (Homicide Hunter and Deadly Women are two of my favs), I saw a commercial for a sale at Payless shoe store.  Here was this cutesy, twenty-something blonde loading up her trunk with a bundle of shopping bags saying that it was the best "bogo" sale ever.

What in the hell is a "bogo" sale?

Since the commercial didn't present the term in all capital letters, it technically didn't qualify as an acronym. I didn't bother to look it up (or pay enough attention to the commercial), so I didn't learn what it was until I was shopping online and saw the phrase again: BOGO sale.  This time, it was capitalized correctly and below it was written "Buy one, get one 1/2 off."

Ah-ha: BOGO sale.  I am quite familiar with the concept; it's the new terminology that was, well, new to me.

Now that I am enlightened, I must criticize. Technically, BOGO just stands for "buy one get one," which could cause confusion.  Is the retailer reminding me that if I buy one of whatever that I will be getting just one item? Or is the retailer reassuring me that if I buy one of whatever, I will indeed get what I bought? The more accurate acronym for a "Buy one, get one 1/2 off sale" would be a BOGO HO sale. And the can of worms that advertising could open up could be cataclysmic.  Or at the very least, illegal.

My pedantic analysis aside, the phonetics of the BOGO (HO) sale are problematic. I don't know about other shoppers, but asked if I wanted to go to a BOGO sale, I'd be inclined to say "no" because it sounds too much like a sale of stupid people. Or a sale for stupid people. 

I commend advertisers for keeping it fresh, for incorporating the language the youth into your ads, for contributing to the degradation of the English language. But, I do recommend that you say your new, catchy phrases out loud to make sure that the older, less hip Gen Xers go to those sales as well.

I Say Colon; You Hear Butthole

Even though I teach English, not all of my friends are teachers. I do have a handful of friends that also teach, but neither of my best friends work in fields remotely related to academia. They are intelligent, accomplished professionals, but like most people, they are not grammarians.

Knowing the intricacies of English grammar is not a survival skill; it isn't even the key to success (a friend is currently padding her bank account by doing workshops related basic writing for very accomplished audiences, for example, the Navy Seals) but because I spend so much time contemplating and teaching grammar I assume that my knowledge is common knowledge: I often forget that the average person doesn't understand the function of the colon.

The colon, the two periods on top of each other as my students call it, has three basic functions: to introduce a list, to signal an elaboration or example of what came before the colon, and to build up anticipation.The colon (:) can be replaced with the words "for example," "to elaborate," or "wait for it!"

Recently, while engaging in a round of Crabs Adjust Humidity (an off-shoot and addition to Cards Against Humanity) with my group of non-teacher friends, as Card Czar I drew the following "question" card: "_______________________: Ain't nobody got time for that."

I thought that sharing the use of the colon (:) would help my friends come up with witty answers, so I said, "Blank colon (:) Ain't nobody got time for that." By doing so, I thought my friends would grab onto the "wait for it" aspect of the punctuation in order to construction a witty response. I waited in anticipation for the rhetorical genius to come my way:

• "Micropenis: Ain't nobody got time for that."
• "Breeding elves for their priceless semen: Ain't nobody got time for that."
• "Two midgets shitting into a bucket: Ain't nobody got time for that."

The kind of wittiness I envisioned was not what I got.  When I said colon (:) they heard

My friends were so excited for me to read their answers: they were laughing before I even flipped their cards over.  When I began to read them, I put down the question card for them all to see and the miscommunication was immediately seen.

"You meant the punctuation," a friend said.  "I thought you meant the other colon."

Of course, I extemporized on the ridiculousness of that assumption. I know that CAH is a crass, bathroom-humor type of game for twisted minds, but in what world does "_____________ colon: Ain't nobody got time for that" make any sense?  Mircropenis: makes sense; breeding elves for their priceless semen: makes sense; two midgets shitting in a bucket: makes sense.

My friends proved me wrong.  The answers they provided actually did make sense in both contexts: the punctuation and the anatomy.

• "A butt-plug in the shape of a rolled-up copy of the U.S. Constitution"
• "A tossed salad"
• "Struggle Snuggles"

Which one did I pick as the winner? Struggle Snuggles, just to be spiteful. 

Don't Be an Ass

My future husband

The "evolution" of communication brought about by technological advancements does not negate basic grammatical structures.

In other words, now that y'all are using nothing but abbreviations and acronyms in written communication, at least use them correctly, dammit.  It may not seem to matter while texting, tweeting, snap-chatting, tik-toking, but those mistakes will transfer to an arena where it does matter.

Abbreviations are shortened versions of a word, but that doesn't mean they aren't just as important as what they stand for. Missus David Draiman (my name once he skips out on that gorgeous , model wife and adorable me for little ol' me) implies no more than Mrs. David Draiman; I am no less a wife by using Mrs. (Actually, I'm not a wife at all, but that's not the point). 

By the same token, Lieutenant Van Buren doesn't lose any of her brash, ball-busting authority by signing her name Lt. Van Buren when she writes up Briscoe for being a smart-ass or Curtis for being a tight-ass.

Acronyms are a type of abbreviation. A basic abbreviation is the shortening of one word; an acronym is the shortening of a phrase into a single word which is constructed from the first letters of each word.  For example, NASA is an acronym for National Aeronautics and Space Administration. NASA is both an abbreviation and an acronym; Mrs. is just an abbreviation.

What abbreviations do is make communication (and filling out forms) a bit easier. Who wants to say, "I have to get up at 5 ante meridian," when it is so much easier to say, "5 A.M."  Even the word "abbreviation" has an abbreviation: abbr.  But just because it's shorter, doesn't mean there aren't any rules:

1)  The period and capitalization can affect meaning.  Abbreviations only capitalize the first letter or each letter after a period; acronyms are always written using all caps and no periods.  A B.S. in physics is not the same as using BS to get through physics. Albert Einstein had a B.S. in physics; the closest thing I come to having knowledge in physics is BS. 

2)  Abbreviations are written not spoken; acronyms are both written and spoken. Saying "Mrs. Draiman" sounds the same as "Missus Draiman;" one does not pronounce my future name as "Mmmrrrsss Draiman." Detective Curtis called Lt. Van Buren "L-T" but he's still a tight-ass.

3) Abbreviations are not arbitrary.  There is a correct way to abbreviate things; one can't just shorten a word any way he or she likes and consider it correct.  Take the following example from a student's paper:

"One of the cadets absent was our Class Sgt. and the other was our Class Ass. (Class Assistant).  Another cadet volunteered to become to new Class Sgt. and I volunteered to become the new Class Ass. because I knew it would please the instructors by being a leader.  I moved from my position from the right to my new position, the Class Ass. Position on the left."

I don't know about other teachers, but my class ass is never absent.  But I guess I'm supposed to put all the asses on the left side of the classroom. 

My student's error may have provided me with a few laughs (and material for a blog post), but the panel of judges grading his project will just think he's an ass. BTW, the correct abbr. for assistant is asst. 

Maybe being an ass is conducive for being an assistant, but I wouldn't put that in writing. 

You Fahrenheit 451ers are totally ignoring these basic rules.  LOL is usually written like an acronym, but we don't pronounce it like one. We say "L-O-L" not "loll." Technically, it's an abbreviation, not an acronym, and should be written like this: L.O.L.   So when those insurance commercials poke fun at the out-of-touch father who says, "loll," it is the insurance company, not the father, who is an idiot. 

I suppose asking teens to put their periods in the write place when engaging in social networking is setting the bar a bit high.  Let's get them to capitalize "I" first.  

Whore's Offspring

The Oxford English Dictionary offers 37 definitions for whore; 27 for slut; 234 for "virgin"; 35 for "chaste."

Urban Dictionary: 271 definitions for whore; 386 for slut; 92 for virgin; 2 for chaste.

It seems that pop culture has very little use for celibacy.

Not only that, but whore and slut have produced quite an offspring of variations determined to have their own identity.

Whoredeal, according to Destri9 from Urban Dictionary, is "an ordeal involving a whore" or more specifically, an ordeal created by whoreish behavior. Clearly, a whore throwing a fit in a department store doesn't qualify because how do the salespeople know she's a whore? My question: can't most "ordeals" be traced back to sex? Isn't whoredeal redundant? And can't whoredeal also refer to a "deal" on a whore? A John could say, "I got a hell of whoredeal the other night! It got two blowjobs for the price of one!"

FCKEDOVERBYWOMEN (who needs to read my post "Rose by Any Other Name") from Urban Dictionary claims that a whordiot is "a cross between a whore and an idiot."   Would the antithesis be chastigence? Is there also a whorsmart? Wait, that might be a better name for a contemporary whorehouse. Although, associating whores with discount department stores is not good marketing. Whoreingdales would be much better.  

To be honest, I don't see any whore as an idiot.  Whether the label is justified or no, a whore is a woman who has the ability and the willingness to control others using sex; the ones who are susceptible to it are the idiots. 

Since many of us, men and women, use sex as a panacea for the pain after a break-up, Coxxy created the term sluster.  This a person who will bed someone he/she considers "beneath them" in the name of "emotional stability" after being dumped or to reinforce "sexual prowess after a lengthly [sic] period of zero sexual activity with another person." I guess masturbation and bestiality can only provide so much comfort. But if it may Coxxy, no one--at least no woman-- will refer to herself as a slut. Whore, yes.  Slut, no.  Sluster is more accurate for the definition since the definition of "slut" includes slumming it, but women will not be motivated to call themselves a slut in the name of denotative correctness.  Throwing that extra "s" in there softens the word a bit, but might I suggest whorester instead? Or whoreaid? Whoraid might make us slusters feel charitable instead of pathetic.

A slustard is someone who "spreads her legs easy and smooth like mustard." I don't know what kind of mustard Mitzul, the author of this definition, uses, but my mustard has bite and spice. Butter has the connotations of easy and smooth. Besides, I think slustard is more akin to whoreidiot in it construction. Someone might confuse slustard as a combination between a slut and a retard and pass her up.  Any guy who misses a chance to hook up with a woman who will "spread it easy and smooth" would be pissed.  So, in place of slustard, how about slutter?

I realize that society's obsession with sex and all its aberrations is more potent than moonshine and more enduring than vampires, so let's make sure that our language for it is appropriate and accurate.  What do you think?

Lushes, Tweekers, and Nymphos are People Too

Education should benefit not just the  intelligent, the innocent, and the disciplined. It also should serve the stupid, the criminal, and the addicted.

What if that alcoholic serving time for a string of DUIs needs to communicate clearly in a letter to his family which of the prison's inmates is his new bitch and which of the inmates he is the bitch of? That could be critical if someone ends up pregnant.

And if that meth-head who can cook his own stuff without blowing off half of his arm could write an instruction manual, he'd not only save countless limbs, but make millions while doing it.

But, of all the addicts out there, Nymphomaniacs have a need for the mastery of language much more than any other. Matthew Cullinan Hoffman reported in Newsweek last year that "40 million people a day are logging into porn websites, (about 13% of the US population). Up to 9 million may qualify under the strict clinical definition of a 'sex addict'."  If nymphomania is going viral, the ability to express oneself in writing will become a must. Unlike the alcoholic rapist and the illegal chemist, nymphomaniacs feel safer broadcasting the different facets of their addictions because they aren't a felony.  

Just as knowledge of subject and direct object aids the alcoholic in the same way that mastery of transitional phrases and organization guides the meth-head, knowing what to do when you miss your period is key for the sex addict. Do you see that alcoholic crawling out from bar bathroom he passed out in to buy a copy of Strunk and White's Elements of Style?  A meth-head jamming cotton into his bleeding nostrils so he can go out and pick up Diana Hacker's A Writer's Reference?


That's why Jenny Baranick newly published book, Missed Periods and Grammar Scares, is brilliant. Not only does the title catch the eye (not the one-eyed monster, you pervert) but her examples and explanations of grammar basics revolve around two things that nyphos can relate to the most: sex and the drama that comes with it.

But, Baranick does not pigeonhole her market. Those lovely ladies who want to avoid being labelled a whore (and these days all a girl has to do is speak to more than one man within 30 minutes to be branded as such) need to know that even the smallest comma error can come back to haunt her. Take, for example, the following sentence from Missed Periods' chapter on commas:

Before you begin turning a trick is to find a spot on which to focus.

Forget the comma after "turning," a hooker's advice is befuddled by those extra words "is to." Knowing that a comma is necessary after "turning" will keep all those innocent and delicate ballerinas, well . . . innocent and delicate.

The title of Baranick's book may not immediately grab a man's attention, but the content is just as valuable.  Men are getting smarter and consulting their female friends when they are trumped up by love. But what if he texts this sentence (also taken from Missed Periods) to his homie with the double XX the day after his girlfriend (Kim) breaks up with him?

Do you think it was due to my pet python escaping daily requesting threesomes with her friends Laura and Samantha texting constantly while Kim and I were on dates or forgetting her birthday three years in a row that made Kim break up with me?

Receiver of said text can't offer her wisdom because she isn't even sure what question he's asking. Did Kim get the flock out because his python escaped daily? (Once would have been enough for me.) Or did Kim dump him because he daily requested threesomes? Did he want to have threesome with any of her friends or just Laura and Samantha? If he wanted to have threesomes with Laura and Samantha did he want Kim watch? Did he want Kim, Laura and Samantha to have threesomes while he watched? Did he want to be involved in this estrogen fueled threesome? Wouldn't that make it a foursome? And the texting: is Kim's issue with who is texting or when the texting was being done or both?  The interpretations are endless.  If the commas were in their proper places, it would be easier to say whether or not Kim dodged a bullet or if she is just a bit possessive and a lot conservative.

So, no matter who you are, which vices you do or don't indulge, you can only benefit from buying a copy of Missed Periods and Other Grammar Scares. It will help keep it real.

To Quote My Grandmother: "Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?": YOLO

Traditionally, New Year's Eve is the official reboot-your-life day. But for me, that feeling of renewal comes in September when the school year begins.  All students march onto campus with their shiny new folders; backpacks clean of tagging; fully stocked with college-ruled notebook paper, pens, and pencils. Hell, some even have highlighters. Young, pimple-ridden faces are lifted to the sky with the resolve to keep up with work and earn better grades.  Even the students who have never earned higher than a 'D' in their lives claim that this year they are going to stop screwing around and focus on school because they have realized a fateful truth . . .

YOLO.

They doodle it on my class syllabus; they shout it in the halls.

YOLO.

Now, YOLO may be a new word, but it's not a new concept. When I inquired what the hell they were saying to one another--who knows what kind of underground revolution my students are capable of--I learned that it is an acronym for "You only live once."

"Oh Captain, my captain."

"YOLO" is the descendant of "carpe diem" which was most often translated as "seize the day," until today's youth gave it just one more revision. Oxford English Dictionary defines "Carpe Diem" as the Latin term for "enjoy the day; pluck the day when it is ripe."

In high school, "living" would mean dodging all of their parents' and teachers' expectations in order to drink, screw, and do drugs. (That's true for many adults as well, but I'd like to say it's not as popular of an approach as it is to teens.) I mean this without disdain or condescension; I was no different at that age. The only thing different is that I YOLOed to the soundtrack of Whitesnake and Motley Crew instead of Kayne West and Katy Perry.

Living life to the fullest--or YOLO-- is not just the mantra of today's youth. The name's just changed. Lord Byron, a master of deviance in the early 1800s (google him, you'll see what I mean) would have tagged "carpe diem" on his backpack. Those hippies of the 60s, would be content to say "seize the day" to their classmates as they trudged from class to class. 

But don't be too hard on this wave of language revisionists. Just as constant as adolescent culture is the need to anchor oneself to a particular era with slang.

Back when "capre diem" led the charge for the nonconformists, a man might go to a lushery to enjoy a few gatters. As he became kanurd, he might start looking for a buor because more than likely only a dollymop would be in such an establishment. If he could get enough mecks down her gullet, she might let him feel her heaving bubbies. But, before she allows him to play with her charms, she would make sure he hadn't spent all his chink. There's no way she'd allow him to put nebuchadnezzar out to grass for free.

In the 1960s, "seizing the day" shredded the propriety of the previous century. A man (or woman) would no longer have to grouse around in the underworld of violence and crime in order to enjoy the spoils of alcohol, drugs and sex; one would merely have the desire to mock The Man. Instead of a seedy bar, one could attend a jam. After a few brews and maybe a little boom (shit, in the 60s they might have also indulged in some beast and girl), the hunks will start interacting with the skirts in the room, but unlike the buors at lusheries, these guys can't assume they are all pigs. They may have to settle for copping a feel, and if they get lucky, swapping spit. Otherwise, that stone fox might just flip a lid and call the fuzz. Then everyone would have to beat feet and ruin the jam altogether. 

miriamaguilar.tumblr.com

Today, teens have plenty of kickbacks to choose from when they are looking to YOLO on a Friday night, but they prefer house-parties. Finding alcohol and bud is easy enough at any social event, but if a guy is not Facebook official with anyone, house-parties provide more sluts to hook up with. If a guy is crazy horny, even a skank will do. But, if he truly wants his bros to think he's hooker, he'll find a kickback where the hotties will be more gucci. They gotta roll it sick, yo.

No longer a teenager, when I YOLO, it doesn't involve lusheries, boom, or skanks. In fact, sitting here, typing up this post, sipping my morning cup of Jo while I enjoy the fresh beach air and watch my kittens frolick-- that's yoloing to me.

Okay, there might be Bailey's in my coffee. 

Why We Need LOL

I speak two languages: snob and sarcasm.

Snob is my written language; sarcasm is my colloquial language. Whenever I write anything -- fiction, prose, emails, grocery lists--I always used correct punctuation, sophisticated vocabulary, and rhetorical flourish. I use semi-colons in my text messages. Hell, I even capitalize first person "I" and spell out "you."

Sarcasm is my colloquial language. I know, I know--sarcasm is only funny to the person using it and is the sword of language. But in the home I grew up in, sarcasm was as valuable as a lifeboat on the Titanic. After years of wielding it in the name of survival, it flows naturally from my mouth, more free than air.

When I was in school to get my teaching credential, I recall a professor warning to "never use sarcasm with students" because it causes psychological damage. At the time, I wondered how I was going to teach anyone anything if I had to be mute.

Then I learned that I needed sarcasm to not only survive my childhood, but also to survive my profession. Have I scarred any teens during my teaching career? Probably. But fuck it, I've always been a bit Darwinian. And the students always know that I'm just kidding. I mean, the voice inflection that cloaks those biting words provides a cushion, right?

But, speaking sarcasm  is so much easier than writing it. And when one is texting (or IMing) it is meant to flow like conversation; it's digital dialogue. Therefore, taking the time to chose that perfect word or orchestrate language so that tone comes through is just practical or reasonable, even for masters of the written word.

Thank God for LOL and :).  Tacking one--or both if the sarcasm is really poignant-- indicates that one is j/king.

LOL is infant in the family of language, but it's precocious. It has already evolved. In the beginning, LOL was primarily used by the receiver of a message to mean that the content of what was sent made him or her to "laugh out loud."

For example, when a prospective suitor texted me, "UR cook dinner n suck cock?" I responded with "LOL" as a kind way of saying "The fuck I am, asshole." If it's a new flirtation, I might tack on a :) as well. That way, he knows that I have no intention of cooking him shit nor sucking on anything but that I am not offended by his sarcasm. If he was being serious, he'll learn right away that I may not be the girl for him. Better he learn that now than after dinner, right?

But then, LOL went from a message receiver's signal that he or she is enjoying the conversation to a message sender's tool to keep the conversation amiable.

This evolution affects both sides of the conversation. Now, the potential suitor would text, "UR cook me dinner, LOL" and I would respond with "No, you're going to buy me dinner, LOL." I don't think he's a misogynistic dick and he doesn't think I am a gold-digging bitch. Instead, we learn that we are both witty and playful.

If potential suitor texts, "UR cook dinner?" without the LOL :), I know that his question is serious and I can whip out my snobbery and respond with, "Sure, after you take me out to dinner, buy me a dozen roses, and then send me a thank you card the following day."

As long as the communication is clear, it's all good. If the potential suitor was joking and the lack of LOL was an oversight, well then, I've learned that he's careless. No thank-you. Still a win-win for me.

Am I Drunk, Punked, or Fucked?

I understand that language will and must evolve to join with scientific discovery, technological progression, and cultural mish-mashing, but I'm more in favor of creating new language instead of just redefining words already used.

For example, I love the word google. It started as a proper noun and then the frequency of its use morphed it into the verb to google which means to investigate or to look up. I don't even mind that text has become a verb because the spirit of its meaning remains the same. That emo has replaced my generation's goth to describe that teen sub-culture is just fine. No problemo.

But, when a word that's been around for a while changes definition--that irritates me.

Currently, my students are setting up a mock trial based on the novel The Stranger. (If you haven't read the novel, don't worry, you can continue reading this post without becoming confused.) To keep these seniors who have mentally graduated motivated, I put them into legal teams, assigned them to be the prosecution or defense, and then paired the teams up to compete against one another. To take it up a notch, I informed the students that only one legal team in each pair can earn an 'A'.

A few days ago, they presented their opening statements. Robed, perched at my podium, I played the judge. As each team presented, the rest of the class acted as jury. After all teams had presented, I asked for jury responses. For one particular pair, the jury unanimously favored the prosecution. After the results were presented and the defense team was slinking off to their desks, one of the members of the prosecution taunted: "We smashed you."

Based on the content, I knew what the student meant, but my understanding of the word smashed did not compute with the situation.

To my knowledge, smashed had gone from meaning “totally drunk” in my day to “having sex” for the current adolescent lexicon. In fact, Urban Dictionary specifies that smashing is "fucking someone good" which if we apply the rules of grammar means "fucking someone who is a good person" so I am guessing that Urban Dictionary intends smashed to mean fucking someone so much (or so hard) so that the fucker dominates the fuckee. In a consensual sex kind of way.

And I don't allow fornication or drinking alcohol in my classroom, so clearly, the meaning has changed.

"Hey Cody," I called to the gloating student. "What does 'smashed' mean now?"

"It means like a landside victory. We totally dominated."

"So it doesn't mean 'to have sex' anymore?" I asked.

"No, it means that too," Cody said.

"In my day, it meant 'drunk'," I said.

"Oh, it means that too."

So now smashed can be counted with those words that have so many definitions one must provide several context clues so as not to cause confusion or panic.

For example, if I were to tell my friends, “I got smashed last night,” they wouldn’t know I got drunk, punked, or fucked. And then they wouldn’t know whether to stage an intervention, make fun of me, or buy me a chastity belt. They’d have to really sit back and think about which definition is more likely to be true. And nobody is gonna like the results of that.

That same day, I asked my college class how they use the word smashed. As it turned out, my college students don’t use it to mean “dominated” in a competitive setting. In fact, one student, Stevie informed me that “We actually used smushed to mean ‘having sex’.”

I dunno, being smushed is ever less appealing that being smashed. But because Stevie is a great writer with a unique spirit that I admire, I considered her clarification seriously. My conundrum was just getting more conundrummy.

Already planning to write a post on the usage of the word, I tested my title: “Am I Drunk, Punked, or Fucked?” to illustrate the problem with the multiple definitions. Several students laughed, which was the reaction I was hoping for. Charlie, who happens to sit behind Stevie, offered a solution, “Well, if you said, ‘I am smashed’ it would be more clear.

I presented my I-was-smashed-last-night example to illustrate that unlike talking to, smashed didn’t come with a preposition (or linking verb) to aid in the clarification.

Being another talented writer, Charlie was not discouraged, “Technically, punking someone isn’t the same as dominating someone in competition. Punking is more like a practical joke.”

These fools can’t use MLA format, but they sure as hell can punch holes in my rhetorical wittiness.

The conundrums were now smashing and multiplying. “Great Charlie, now I have to decide whether of want to be rhetorically catchy or denotatively accurate.”

“I like your title,” Christine, who sits in front of Stevie said. I asked her, “so stick with the title, even though it’s not accurate?”

She nods.

“The inaccuracy doesn’t bother you?”

She shakes her head and I have to remind myself that not everyone is as anal as I am. And I mean anal as in “obsessively orderly.” Besides, Christine is a pretty good judge of when I am actually being funny and when I am actually being an idiot based on which of my jokes she finds humorous.

Nevertheless, I still did some online research before composing this blog. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, smashed appeared in the English language in 1819 to mean “crushed; broken to pieces.” It retained that definition until those rebels of 1962 used it to mean “intoxicated, drunk; under the influence of drugs.” No mention of fornicating, dominating or otherwise.

I did look up smushed on Urban Dictionary and I was right—it is less attractive that getting smashed. According to that site, smushed is “the act of pressing a flaccid penis against a woman’s groin area in a vain attempt at sexual intercourse.”

Therefore, as the self-proclaimed czar of diction and with the Oxford English Dictionary to back me up, I declare that smashed is only allowed to mean “crushed” as in “broken to pieces” or “drunk.”

Although, “Am I Drunk, Punked, or Fucked?” is a better title than “Am I Broken to Pieces or Intoxicated?”.

A Rose by Any Other Name . . .

"What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
By Any other name would smell as sweet?"
                             --- Romeo and Juliet


If names didn't matter, expecting parents wouldn't spend months researching and debating names.

Take my name for instance: Holly. It means a plant with red berries (that are poisonous). I'm sure my parents went ten rounds on which plant to name me after.

So, Holly by any other name would be just as poisonous? Awesome.

If it weren't for the Internet and social networking, I would agree with Juliet (on the value of a name only). For most of us, our birth names don't really represent the scope of who we are as people. But we didn't name ourselves and our parents name us before any sign of personality shows itself. At best, our birth names represent what our parents hope we'll become.

So, my parents wanted me to be poisonous. Awesome.

But on the Internet, when we set up email accounts, Twitter accounts, participate in online gaming, and dating profile we get to create a name that we think represents who we are. Therefore, my lovely and naive Juliet, a name does represent the scent of the rose. Or at least a person's willingness to take a whiff.

For example, my email involves a reference to vampires. I  have had the address forever, back when I wanted to be seen as dark and dangerous because I thought it was sexy. I keep the email address out of pure laziness: it's just too much for me (see technology humor posts) to send out a mass message directing my friends and family to my new addy. And, if I want to be honest, I still hope that whomever I give it to will see its contrast to my physiognomy as mysterious. Edgy. Unconventional.

Sexy.

What usually happens now is that those to whom I give it regard me as kooky. Confused. Immature (even though I always explain that my vampiric address has "nothing to do with Twilight"). They laugh at my explanation--trying to sound humored by my wit--but really they are backing away, lowering their eyes, and quickly closing the conversation (or transaction).

Missed Periods has great posts about the value of a professional email address, so I'll move on to profile usernames.

Usernames that are known only to you--sure, unleash the inner adolescent. Sexy beast. Lunatic. Go ahead and register that "BoogerEater." "69forever." "BloodyPretzel." Hopefully, you won't have to call the IT support line and be forced to share it with a complete stranger.

But, with dating profiles, the inner adolescent, sexy beast, and lunatic needs to be harnessed. When potential mates are perusing their matches, they may look at every aspect of a profile before noting the specifics of the username. The problem arises when someone is notified via email that someone winked, smiled, emailed, or wants to meet you.

For example, I have received the following notifications:

"Clitlicker wants to meet you."

"Cocknorris just winked at you."

And my favorite, "Bigdaddypoopface is interested in you!"

And recently, I learned that I am a favorite of MrRightNow!69 and WalkingDeath.

Let's just say that I have no intention of being the dick-sucker to Clitlicker.

My vagina doesn't want to be anywhere near Cocknorris.

And I am certainly not interested in Bigdaddypoopface. I might be open-minded, but I'm not disgusting.

And MrRightNow!69 gives me performance anxiety.

Select. Delete. No viewing profiles. Clitlicker could be Gerard Butler, Cocknorris could be Vin Diesel, and Bigdaddypoopface could be George Clooney, but I will never know.

WalkingDeath? I guess I'll hit him up when I'm feeling suicidal or necrophiliactic.

Therefore, Juliet, there is a lot in a name. One can't be too hard a a tween expressing what little wisdom he or she can gather in the first thirteen years of their lives.  I mean, everything turned out alright for her, didn't it?

Monkey-fuck-a-football: an Example

Back in August, I blogged about my father's humorous rhetoric. One of my personal favorite "Dadisms," as I call them, is monkey-fuck-a-football. It can be used as a noun or adjective. The definition is a situation in which one is extremely uncoordinated and clumsy.

The evolution of monkey-fuck-a-football is rooted in my father's need to plan a time to plan the plan. Nothing, nothing takes place in his world without careful thought, some deliberation, and a lot of measuring. On those rare occasions when he must act on the fly, the most simplest tasks become riddled with complications. During those times, Dad would say, "It's like a monkey trying to fuck a football," which has evolved into monkey-fuck-a-football.

Not only is imagery funny, but the use of alliteration and consonance appeals to the ears and the tongue. Bravo, Dad. Not bad for an engineer.

My brother-in-law, Cory, doesn't quite understand it's meaning and he's an English teacher as well! He might not get this particular metaphor, but he adds an example of irony to it quite nicely.

Even more ironically, it is the birth of his and my sister, Kelli's, son on Wednesday that led to a perfect example of monkey-fuck-a-football. And, of course, I am the star. Well, I'm the supporting role. The stars are Kelli and Cory's pets: Jade, Duncan, and Zeus.

Jade is a Pit Bull, Doberman, Labrador mix. Her looks may be mostly Pit Bull, but her temperament is all Lab. When she hauls her 50 pounds of pure muscle into your lap for a belly rub, it is both adorable and painful. In her world, playtime is all the time. No one can wear this girl out--your arm will go numb before she's tired of playing fetch.

 Duncan, a puppy only twelve weeks old, is a Shih Tzu / Maltese mix. He weighs 3 lbs. but bosses the entire household around. My dad calls him Rizzo the Rat. When I first saw him, I asked Kelli if that was a dog or had she just cleaned out her hair brush?

Duncan munching on my finger.

Zeus, an average alley cat, is twelve years old and one grumpy old man. Kelli adopted him when he was a year old and he clearly had been an outdoor cat because he has escaped his indoor life several times. Zeus barely tolerated Cory moving in on my sister, but the addition of Jade and Duncan has really ticked him off.  He spends a lot of time brooding and whining. Kelli swears that if he had opposable thumbs, he would pack up his shit and leave. He tries to woo all visitors into taking him home with them by trying to climb into purses or curling up in laps and purring. 

For the three nights that Kelli would be in the hospital (my nephew, Jay Joseph was born by Cesarean section) Cory and I planned to trade residences because they live close to my work and I live close to the hospital. Also, my three cats could survive without people around as long as food was in their bowls. My sister's pets--who all have individual regiments for everything from where their food bowls are located to their level of access to the backyard--would not fare so well.

Kelli and Cory manage their animal's routines and restrictions with confidence and deftness. Me? Monkey-fuck-a-football.

Last week, after spending the day at the hospital I drove up to Whittier anticipating very anxious animals who had been sequestered for over twelve hours. Having spent the entire time alone in the backyard, Jade greeted me with a pit bull's enthusiasm and nails. She is trained, but still struggles with not jumping on visitors. I struggle with not stepping in dogshit or falling into a hole that she had dug on my way from the garage to the back porch. Doing this at night? Oy.

Once I made it to the porch poop-free but with a bruised thigh from where Jade's paws had landed, I let Duncan out of the laundry room. He bounded outside, yipping away, looking like a giant hairball blowing across the lawn.

I went into the house, followed by Jade, to put my stuff down: overnight bag, keys, purse and cellphone. Zeus immediately accosted me with squawks for food. I dropped some kibble into his bowl and then went back outside with Jade to monitor the peeing. Because Duncan is so small and a puppy, he is not left outside for long periods of time.

My Nemesis

I didn't go out through the laundry room, because that's where Duncan is closed up when no one is home with his food, a crate, and puppy pads. I had traversed enough shit for one day and really no one ever goes in an out of the house that way. The main exit from the house to the backyard is a set of glass doors complete with screens. I decided to close the screen doors only.

Jade went over to her food and water bowl and had dinner while stood with hands on hips, ordering Duncan to do his business so we could go in the house and go to bed. Instead of business, Duncan was frolicking around, plucking up pink flowers that had fallen off a bush. He brought a wilting bud to me, then got another one, shook it vigorously to show it who was boss and then took it on a tour of the entire backyard. Unfortunately, the tour didn't include bathroom breaks.

While my back was turned, Zeus snuck out onto the porch. I saw him and acted with authority and calm so that he wouldn't bolt. Opening the screen door, I called to Jade who immediately came and went inside. Duncan, on the otherhand, needed more coaxing. He may be a puppy, but he's a slippery little booger, and it was quite a challenge to catch him and keep and eye on the cat as he skulked around the lawn. Once I had Duncan, I threw him into the house (along with a few pink flower petals) and closed the two doors so that the dogs wouldn't come back outside (the screen doors don't really latch closed) and startle the cat into a run.

"Zeus, you silly boy, what are you doing?" I cooed as I crept up on him. He hunkered down a bit, suspicious, but I moved slowly and kept my voice low until I got close enough to snatch him up. Cat in arms, I lugged him to the door, shifted his girth under one arm, grabbed the doorknob. . . and found it locked.

Mumbling under my breath, I went to the laundry room door . . .  and found it locked.

Oh shit.

Wrapping Zeus in a tight, double arm hold, I went to the door that led from the master bedroom to the backyard and found it . . . you guessed it . . . locked.

Hell, if the house caught fire, each resident had his or her own exit, but I as one person couldn't find a way in through any of them. Cory, I have just usurped you as a model of irony.

Great. I'm locked outside with an indoor cat at 11 p.m. without keys and without a phone. Jade and Duncan sat in front of the glass doors wagging their tails and cocking their heads at me in confusion. I watched Duncan pee on the carpet and then scurry around it with triumph.

My only option was to leave Zeus in the garage, climb over the fence, hope I didn't break a bone because I couldn't call an ambulace, and then hope that a neighbor would bring me his or her cellphone to call my mother (who I learned later actually didn't have a key). I had no plans to call my sister or her husband; they had just had their first child and all they needed was to worry about me being locked out of their house. With the cat.

Trudging across the back lawn (still managing not to step in dog shit) I found the garage door also locked. Oh, and the garage door opener? In the house. With the keys and my phone and my brain.

Fuck me.

I could barely hop a fence with a ladder, a pully system, and a team of stuntmen. Haul my shit over a fence with a very agitated, overweight cat? Forget it. Zeus began to voice his disapproval with a gutteral growl. I squeezed him tighter; he squirmed.

It was out of the question to leave the cat in the backyard while I tried to get to a neighbor's house. The chances that he'd still be around when I returned were slim and I could not lose this cat. The few times he had run away--once being gone for three days--Kelli had been distraught. If I lost the damn cat, she'd be devastated and I'd never forgive myself.

Hoisting the cat up, I marched with purpose back to the glass doors. Eyeing them, I took a deep breath. I turned my profile to the target, leaned my weight into one leg, readjusted my hold on Zeus, and launched my less burdened foot toward the door. My heel cracked the white paint of the wooden frame. Encouraged, I slammed my foot into it again. The dogs scooted back and lowered their heads, but they did not run. Zeus snarled and squirmed. I tightened my grip and delivered a series of kicks--my leg whipping out from my body; a boom and rattle echoing from each strike. The glass in the door quivered.

I would have looked pretty bad-ass if I hadn't been wearing yoga pants, a shirt with a lotus flower and the image of a mediating Buddha on it. Oh, and clutching a fat, grey cat to my chest. But, I felt bad-ass. Until I had to take a break and catch my breath.

Glaring at the cat in my arms and panting, I drew my posture up, jut out my chest, lunged back, and fired my leg out one more time. The doors flew open spraying chips of wood and sending two dogs fleeing. Tossing the cat onto the ground, I gave him a good scolding. I think I also cussed out my keys and phone for good measure. I flipped-off the garage door opener.

Yanking off my ugg boots, I dropped them on the floor only to have Duncan take one in his mouth and drag it out of sight.

There was pee to clean up, but I wanted to make sure the door was secure first.

The inside and outside knobs were still intact, but the strike plate and the deadlatch were not longer securely in the door. I tried to push them back into place, but bent screws and bits of broken wood got in the way. Finally, I was able to force the doors closed, and luckily, the screen doors had hook latches on the inside. I could at least keep strangers from breaking in.

That done, I turned to head into the kitchen for a glass of wine (or shot of Tequila) and stepped in Duncan's pee. But, I kept going only to find that they had no red wine and no chilled white wine. And no Tequila.

The icing on the cake? Not only do I have icing, I've got decorations too. During the night, Duncan peed in the bed while I slept spooning Jade. The next morning my foot sunk into a nice little turd Duncan left for me in the hallway. And, later that next day, my brother-in-law decided to run home, discovered the damaged doors, and called the police because he thought someone had broke in.  He wasn't totally wrong; someone did break in. There was just no need to call the police.

Well, maybe there was.

When my sister called to ask me about the doors and asked "if I had noticed that they'd been pried open?" I said, "Of course, I noticed because I did it. Only I didn't pry them open, I had to kick them in."

After a pregnant pause (I know, groaner pun), I added, "It was monkey-fuck-a-football at your house last night. I had my ass handed to me a 3 lb fur-ball and a 14 lb feline."

She needed no other explanation.