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Monday, January 26, 2004

So I think that Kimberly and I will just pad our entries with references back and forth all week (is it still cheating if we reference different parts of a an item?).

How to sound really, really annoying. [sigh] It’s just too fatiguing to produce crisp consonants, clear vowels, and actual, meaningful vocabulary.

(When you first open the link, a recording will come on that will make you want bury your stapler in the speaker’s head. Read on for the transcript.)

What’s a Doohickey?

Sometimes, Americans have little mental pauses, where something’s right on the tip of our tongue, but we can’t think of the exact words… or when we want to euphemise unseemly speech. Fortunately, there’s a way around this that doesn’t involve brain surgery or duct tape. We use substitution words that can mean anything and everything.

Here’s an ode to mental vacuity.

Substitution Words

I was rooting willy-nilly through a buncha stuff, looking every whichway for the dinky little whatchamacallit to fix the goldong thingamajig, but good ol’ whatsizname had put it in the hooziwhatsit, as usual! Boy oh boy, what a load of hooey. Always the same old rigamarole with that cockamamie bozo. He’s such a pipsqueak! If I found it, ka-ching, I’d be rich, which would be just jim dandy! I’d be totally discombobulated. You-know-who had done you-know-what with the goofy little gadget again, so whaddyaknow ... there was something-or-other wrong with it. What a snafu! I had a heck of a time getting ahold of whatsername to come over and take care of it with her special little doohickey that she keeps there in the thingamabob. For the gazillionth time, the flightly little flibbertigibbit said alrighty, she wouldn’t shilly shally, she’d schlep over with her widget fixer and whatnot to do a bodaciously whizbang job on the whole shebang. That’s right, the whole kit ‘n caboodle, no ifs, ands, or buts about it ... no malarkey. Okee dokey, but she was a skosh busy right then, yada, yada, yada. Yessirreebob, we usually have gadgets galore, but what with the this-and-that, and all the hooplah, it’s all topsy turvy today, ‘cuz that humungous nincompoop is still in the whatsit acting like everything’s just hunky dory. That’s just a bunch gobbledeegook. Pure gibberish. He’s such an old rapscallion. Jeeminy Christmas, the shenanigans of that old fogey. Yackety schmackety, blah, blah, blah! Shucks, I wanted to find it on my own, and not be penalized for it… I’m just so darned tired of gimme’s and gotcha’s by a lotta has-been nosybones out hobnobbing with hoity toity wannabes. The real nitty gritty is that, young and old, they’re just a buncha happy-go-lucky whippersnappers and cantankerous old fuddyduddies who don’t know diddly. I poked among the gewgaws, tchotchkes, gimcracks, and knickknacks, there in the doodad, but I found zilch, zero, zippo, nil, nada and null. So-and-so told me such-and-such about the deeleebob, but I just don’t know where that little gizmo is. Sheesh! It’s a big whoopdedoo when you can’t even remember where the gosh diddly darned whaddyacallit is!

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Monday, January 26, 2004

Humor

Oh my god, am laughing sooo hard. Go over to Lee’s and read yesterday’s post… Especially hard-hitting this morning, as I spent most of yesterday prying mini-Tootsie Pop lollipops off the bedspread, the computer cabinet, the rug, Gil’s pillow, the side of the butcher block, the couch, the bottom of my slipper… Must remember to remedy candy drawer hazard—Daphne has discovered that she can reach into the gap afforded by the safetly latch and withdraw great fistfulls of the things. Either that, or must start buying bigger lollipops.

BTW, have lost 12 pounds since Christmas on a diet similar to Lee’s, supplemented by 12-hour workdays.

Correction: my friend Kathy reminded me yesterday that it wasn’t really this diet that dropped me two sizes. It was the Stress and Fear Diet, supplemented by 12-hour workdays. How silly of me to have forgotten.

Saturday, January 24, 2004

Q: Wanna guess why I posted the results of this quiz?

A: Because I didn’t get the answer that said I was a tramp.

Pam, I am sure that a Bunny Hug isn’t trampy at all. *cough*

Saturday, January 24, 2004

Weblogs

...can be a dangerous thing.

Never let it be said that I am slow on the up-take: after three days of three people telling me that they haven’t been able to see the main content column in my blog, I have reverted to a basic, non-advanced (is that even a word?) template. Interestingly enough, it still manages to be screwed up by whatever I did to italicize the sidebar headings on only one side…

Anyway, please excuse the mess while I mop up after myself. I hope to have the drop-down link lists back soon, but for now you’ll have to scroll like nobody’s business to read them.

[sheepishly realizes she congratulated herself a little too soon on zeno’s blog]

Saturday, January 24, 2004

As you may have gathered, I haven’t been home much lately due to long hours at the office, and now that I am with our youngest for days on end (which I LOVE, by the way), I am just discovering the unavoidable landmines that come of not being familiar of the latest “in” jokes and habits.

For instance, I cheerfully handed Daphne a banana last night, and went about getting a plate and a knife and started to help prepare it for her, when I noticed the big, pouty face she was making. I was supposed to be asking who was on her banana phone, and petitioning to talk to whoever it was. Fortunately, I am a quick study and did it right when the banana came out again this morning.

Then, just a few minutes ago, we were enjoying our cereal, juice & coffee (she takes hers black), side by side on the barstools in the kitchen. She was singing to her Lucky Charms, and I was doing the crossword. Pure domestic bliss. Then, she turned to me and said, “I want to blow it!” I paused for only a beat before correctly surmising that she wanted to cool off my coffee for me. How sweet! So I held up my cup for her, whereupon she stood up in her seat, leaned over, pursed her lips, and dribbled an electric-blue stream of Charms-flavored saliva right into my perfect, perfect cup of Major Dickason’s.

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