A Word New to Me

Diminish.

I believe the word itself is a verb meant to convey the idea of something shrinking or decreasing.  By tagging four simple letters to the end (able) we have an adjective; another four (ment) will give us a noun.  An "ly", as usual, transforms the word to an adverb.  A few short words ending with "return" will even give us a law.  I, however,  provide you with the embodiment; the state of being.

I may have had many parts of speech attached to my life before: complex, exuberant,  intelligent, competent - perhaps even ubiquitous.  Yet another word now runs through my mind unimpeded.  I am diminished.  My life is diminishing.  I am diminishment itself.  My star has dimmed.  I have no need of diminutives. I have become dimwitted.

Drip Dry and the "D" Word

I don't usually complain about my husband, Drip Dry, here on the public airwaves.

Nor do I make it a habit to discuss my digestive distress.

But in this post I'm going to do them both together.   And - for the ease of my readers - let me just tell you that when I refer to the "D" word, I am defining that disgusting word which I absolutely detest - diarrhea. . .or the word I most decidedly prefer - dysentery.

So it all started last week when I began having some vague abdominal discomfort along with a low-grade fever.  By Saturday morning I had determined that the pain was so debilitating that I decided to drag myself to the ER.  Now, mind you, I begged Drip Dry to drop me off at the door so I could en-dure the or-deal alone, but he refused to be deterred.

Now, I can't determine if Drip Dry has developed an innate defense mechanism to deflect his own discomfort in hospital settings, but he definitely turns into a decidedly different person when he goes through those revolving doors.  He enters them a relatively-sane and intelligent creature, and exits on the other side - not exactly dumb or defective - but we'll just call it a tad bit. . .  deranged.  You see, Drip Dry is decidedly inquisitive by nature, but somehow his whole "inquiring minds want to know" thing goes spiraling out of control and instead of dealing with the medical data at hand- he morphs into some kind of detective and attempts to discover everything - and anything - he can about his surroundings.

So as I'm signing in at the desk - in decided discomfort - the receptionist takes a palm scan of my hand and explains it's a new way of i-dentifying patients.  Now this little discovery made Drip Dry almost delirious with joy and he began to try and discern everything he could about this new display of technology. . . all while I am standing next to him in debilitating pain and dying to drop myself into the wheelchair next to me.  But - alas - the two receptionists are so enthralled by Drip Dry's disruptions and diversions that they forget all about me and then proceed to deride me when I incorrectly assumed that the process of placing myself in the chair had devolved on to me.

Eventually, despite the distractions, I am somehow delivered into the inner sanctums of the ER and Drip Dry meets my designated nurse for the first time, where his detective skills are further put to work - bombarding her with a deluge of questions and demanding to know all about her life. . . in other words distracting her from her tasks with his discussion. . . at which point I try to divert his attention by suggesting he take a walk and make his discoveries elsewhere.  And when he came back from his exploratory trip (and I swear to God he used this word) he asked her about the demographics of ER patients at that time of day - which he had decidedly determined were. . . well. .  .old.  I then reminded Drip Dry that the pediatric ER was directly on the other side of the building and suggested that he go check out the demographic data over there, but he definitively declined.

Enter the doctor.

So the M."D" proceeds to ask me to describe my symptoms in detail, and - after I am done - he does his due diligence by asking me if there's "anything else" I've been experiencing . . .  like, perhaps, the "D" word????  Now actually I had been battling with the "D" word for about two weeks, but I was raised to believe that a lady doesn't discuss those kinds of things unless directly asked. . . so, hence, I demurely divulged that - yes - I had been experiencing the "D" word.

And at this precise moment Drip Dry proceeds to enter the discussion and defiantly declares, "But that's not unusual for her."

Excuse my momentary diversion here, but did you know that back in the dark ages a British king would have a dignitary designated as "Groom of the Stool"?   Now this particular job was a decidedly distinguished  position because he got to deliver the king's daily dump to the royal doctor each morning. . . after which the doctor would dissect said stool - trying to decipher and detect  signs of royal disease, dysentery, decay, or other debilitating defects in the king's deposit which might indicate the king's untimely demise.  If he found none, he then duly decreed the king fit to do his duty for another day.

Now, what the devil possessed Drip Dry to deduce that he had been deputized as my own personal "Groom of the Stool", is beyond me.  And perhaps I was a tad bit delirious with discomfort at that point - but I'm still wondering why I didn't debunk his statement then and there. . .  for, in truth, the duration of the "D" word was - without a doubt - decidedly unusual for me.  But - whatever the determining factors - his statement had the effect of dissembling, detracting, and derailing the discussion - while disguising what may have definitely been an i-dentifying symptom and perhaps depriving me of a direct diagnosis.


All to my detriment!
  
So to make a long story short. . . after Drip Dry decodes the meaning of the "crash cart"  in the CT room. . . and discovers that he, himself, has a swollen and distended thumb that may need the doctor's attention. . . I then needed to direct old Drippy to desist trying to operate the blood pressure cuff himself. . . which was quickly followed by a heated debate about whether the little thingy they place on your dorsal digit (otherwise know as a finger) displays your oxygenation rate or your pulse ( I was right - it determines and displays both) the doctors decide to send me home with a un-dignified diagnosis of the detection of gallstones.

And told me to wait it out.

Which I did. 

Diligently, I might add.

Until I dragged myself unaccompanied to my own doctor on Monday who - due to the discomfort and duration of the "D" word - diagnosed diverticulitis and placed me on antibiotics and a special diet which is destined to solve my digestive dilemma!

With no thanks to Drip Dry . . .

who I just may now designate as my deranged, yet dedicated, 

"Duke of the Derriere "

The Elusivity of Dabbling

Dabble.

I like the sound of the word.

But I'm quite sure I like what it indicates better.

Now if you run and google dabble, Mr. Webster will tell you that it means - first and foremost - to paddle or splash about in water.   But that's not what I'm referring to here. . .  I'm talking about the dabble that refers to taking up a habit or activity.  For fun.   Simply because you like it.

Like it?

Therein lies the problem.

For I'm not quite sure that I actually like anything in the traditional dabbleable arena.

I'm a vegetarian with crazy food aversions so I will not, perchance, be dabbling in the culinary arts.  I'm a failure at yoga, so I won't be dabbling with any yogis.  (I dare say that my propensity for sitting on a couch would rule out dabbling in any physical activity. . .)  I have no artistic ability. . .no oratory skills. . . no singing voice or physical prowress.

What will my dabble be?

Now we all know that I take to wine like a duck to water, so perhaps I could dabble in that direction (although, in my case, it conjures up the THIRD definition of dabble which involves totally submerging one's head in liquid to get a specific item . .)

 I could try dabbling in writing. . . or poetry. . . or blogging. . . or reading. . .  but we already know that those are nothing short of OBSESSIONS with me.

Can I dabble in complaining? I think not.

Oh to be a dabbler in macaroni and cheese!  But that also conjures up that OTHER definition of dabbling. . . the submerging one. . .

If all else fails, I can attempt to be a dabblista in vocabularianisms!

In any event, I need to find my dabble before my next-of-kin writes my eulogy. . .

. . . and lets it spill that I dabble

in the insane. . .

Words I Hate

 Once before, when I fancied myself a vocabularian, I wrote a post entitled The Language of Giggles. 

That post was all about the words I absotutely adore.

Now that I'm a Mouse-a-Phobic, I offer you instead the words that I adamently abhor:

Scurry. . .Scamper. . .Wriggle. . . Slither

Swishy .. . Nibble. . . Sneaky. . .Twitchy

Flurry. . .Tamper . . .Squiggle. . .Quiver
Fishy. .  .Dribble. . .Freaky. . .Itchy

Dirty. .  . Furry. . .Filthy. . .Stinky

Hurty. . .Blurry. . . Stealthy.. . Blinky
Hairy. . .Smelly. . . Putrid. . .Squatter
Scary. . .Yelly. . .Stupid. . .Fodder

Turning. . . Lying. . . Danger . . .Waver
Squishy. . .Squashy. . .Tumble. . .Tossy
Churning. . .Crying. . .Changer. . . Caver
Wishy. . .Washy. . .Bumble. . .Bossy

Frightened. . .Racing. . . Cower. . .Fleeing
Tightened. . Pacing. . . Anxious. . .Being
Panic. .  . Fearing. . .Trauma. . .Stumble 

Frantic . . Tearing. . . Drama. . . Crumble

Meaty. . . Muddy. . .Messy. . . Chewy
Beady. . .Bloody. . .Fleshy. . .Gooey
Cautious. . .Greyish. . .Oooey. . .Stewy
Nauseous. . .Preyish . . .Ratatouille!

And with that said, I lovingly remain. . .

p.s. Let me just state for the record that - although it conjures up a  messy and out-of-control image for me - I have not abandoned my affection for the word akimbo!

The Language of Giggles

So in my own clumsical way, something about my last post reminded me of one of my greatest loves in life.

Words.

Yes, A Mom on Spin is unabashedly in love with the English language.  Yeah, sure, English may not be officially listed as one of the snobby Romance Languages, but it tops the list of Giggle ones.  There are countless words in the dictionary that make me smile.  Words like . . .

betwixt

and

akimbo. . .

Oh, and I absolutely adore the word askance. (Truth be told, I've recently discovered that I love any word with an "a" placed in front of it. .  .words like. . . akin. . . aggrieved. . .and aforementioned. Add an "a" to any word and "A" Mom on Spin will be adamantly "b"smirched with it!)


Curmudgeon.  I ask you, is there another language that would have such an appropriate-sounding noun for such a bad-tempered person?   Add to it the fact that you can put the adjective cantankerous in front, and even a cantankerous curmudgeon would be begrudgingly beguiled about the sound it made.

Cahoots!  I, personally, would be debilitatingly delirious if I were decisively in cahoots with someone. (And while we're hovering over the letter "d" for the moment, I also feel the need to tell you that I feel what might be an unnatural attraction to the word debunk.)


If  you're a regular reader of this blog you must know by now that I have been both enthralled and enamored with the words feckin' and fiddler's fart ever since I watched Angela's Ashes for a second time.  Enough said.

Kindred. Only kindred souls would be in cahoots with each other.


And how about some of those big time words like loquacious?  Obfuscate?  Ubiquitous?


Ginormous.  There.  I have used the word ginormous in a sentence.

Did you know that Mr. Webster only officially approved of the word ginormous in 2007?   (Before its entry in the dictionary we were forced to use the equally-giggly humongous in its place.) And this beauty of a word was only able to take up residence in the dictionary after it won Webster's on-line poll of Favorite Words (Not in the Dictionary).

And then, like my own clumsical word that set this whole post aflight, there are the whimsically-mish-mashed  words that I absotutely adore in what can only be described as a Suessish kind of way. Words that vocabularians - like moi -  have simply made up because they make us smile. These words, like ginormous, may still be officially classified as neologisms, but they still top the list of my Favorite Words (Not in the Dictionary).   Words like. . . .  

Fa-cocked. . . Fer-clooked . . . Fash-muncked. . .

and let's not forget

. . . beautious . . . confuzzeled. .  .schlumped. . . piffulous. .  .schmiglet. . . flusterpated. . .slickery. . .and . . . schlopp. . .

So romance-schmance. . . .here's to the Language of Giggles!




Do you have a neologism to share?  Have at it. . . .

Drink. Nap. Blog.

So because of my irrational fear of small furry rodents in movie theaters I am in the middle of reading Eat. Pray. Love.

And just like Elizabeth Gilbert toyed with the idea of naming her book something else, I - too - batted around a few other names for this blog post title. . . things like. . .

Read.  Sweat.  Sleep.

Shop.  Doze.  Imbibe. 

or even . . . Spend.  Talk.  Slurp.

All because my sister pried me away from reveling in my clean, orderly, and teenager-free house in order to enjoy the last days of summer at The Jersey Shore (although if you asked me, it was something akin to a religious experience to enter Trigger and Ponzi's rooms and actually see the floor . . .) but all-the-same I thought I would share a list of the verbs that I am NOT participating in while here at Exit 25 on my mini-vaca:

Clean.  Cook. Communicate.

Whine.  Launder.  Swear.

Worry.  Wince.  Work.

Yell.  Vacuum.  Load.

Slam.  Feed.  Insomniate.

 I think you just might get the picture now. . .

Here's to those last days of summer

and a quick prayer that I don't get evacuated by Hurricane Earl. . .

My Silent Language

I feel the need to clear up something here. . .

In thinking about my last few posts, I fear that I may have inadvertently given you the wrong impression.  For after reading over the exploits of the past week I realize that you - my dear readers - may mistakenly believe that I have a mouth like a longshoreman.


So I'm here today to tell you that I don't . . . have a mouth like a longshoreman, that is.

In fact, if you were to ask my husband, family, and co-workers (the priests especially) they would tell you in no uncertain terms that they have never heard a swear word come out of my mouth.   But the truth of the matter is that lately I've been dealing in a steady stream of expletives - in my head only.

Do you know how - when you're learning a foreign language - they'll tell you that you'll know that you have truly mastered that language once you start to think in your new tongue?  Well congratulations must be in order for my rapid learning skills because I now think in obsceniteese.

Case in point . . .

I have recently started using a most peculiar phrase whenever I drop something. . . or when I go to use my makeup remover pads and some teenage daughter has stolen them. . . or when I have to walk into the messy room that once was a neat little nursery. . . or when I go to do a load of wash and find another person's wet clothing still sitting in the bottom of the washer. . . or how about when I go to take my car out of the garage and find a lazy daughter has parked directly behind me . . .  or when I return home at eight o'clock at night and no one has bothered to feed the dog . . .  or when. . . well, you get the picture.

And just what is that peculiar phrase you might ask?


Sh*t and a half!

That's right.  It's no longer good enough to use, Sh*t!  I have to practice one-up-manship and add an extra half - making it, Sh*t and a half!

But, however odd the phrase, the odder thing may be the fact that the displeasure never makes it past my teeth and lips.  Instead, it stays swirling around the jumbled vortex of my head so that, while on the outside A Mom on Spin may appear to be happy, jolly and content, on the inside her brain is twisting, cursing and contorting in a way quite unbefitting a lady of any kind - much less a lady who spends half her life at church.

So you see, my friends, when I did all of that re-entry swearing after vacation, it really was all in my head. . . you know. . . kind of like my own private language.  And ditto for when Trigger incurred all those overdraft charges. . . .the expletives were private thoughts . . .like prayers. . . only the opposite. . .and sometimes the prayers and the swears were even mixed together in one big old half-holy slurry . .  .like, Dear God, would you please help that feckin' Trigger to learn how to manage a freakin' bank account? 


Yeah.  That's it.  A half-holy-prayer-and-swear slurry. . .

What?

Is there anything wrong with that?