Ahead of the curve in refrigerated logistics.

Ooh, a clichéd metaphor matched with an esoteric phrase. Is this the latest trend in brand marketing?

I’ve been thinking about taglines lately, wondering if my little company should have one. I’ve long felt that I don’t need a tagline for the sake of having a tagline. After a brief online search of commentary on the matter, it seems most experts agree. In fact, there are plenty of arguments against.

Once, after completing a project, I received a note from the client, complimenting my work and saying that what I produced made her “comfy.” My firm’s president jokingly suggested our tagline should be “Making clients comfy since 2002.”

It strikes me that the Dish network’s “Let’s watch TV” or Delta Airlines’ “We get you there” were ripped off by their marketing firms, which set the bar as low as it could possibly go. No imagination, and no particular reason to choose one company over another.

On the other hand, these oversimplified slogans might be superior to over-jargoned technical gobbledygook, which might fit on the side of a semi but not on a business card.

Quick – what’s your nomination for:

Most creative tagline?
Most ambiguous?
Funniest, without intending to be?

I am honored to be in possession of a very special book–written, illustrated and hand-assembled by my Aunt Linda. I am not sure what I did to deserve this treasure, but I’m sure glad to have had it for nearly 50 years. The cover is made of sturdy cardboard, covered in amber-colored burlap. The pages inside are typed on onion skin paper. The pictures are drawn in black felt-tip pen.

Every two pages there is a story, and a drawing that goes along with it, written lovingly about someone in Aunt Linda’s life. I’d like to share two here.

The first one, I presume, is about her daughter, my cousin Lesley, whom you met here about a year ago.

Good morning, dear Jesus, this day is for me.
It’s time to be up and about.
“Morning time, Mommy!”, “Morning time, Dad!”
That’s what I’m going to shout.
There’s a number of things that I’m hoping to do
And things that I’m planning to fix,
So wake up, you sleepyheads, get me some juice,
It’s almost a quarter to six.

This one’s about her Goddaughter, me:

I met a girl names Monica (a very pretty name),
And since I’ve talked with Monica I’ve never been the same.
Though she is only five years old she knows her ABC’s,
Can count to ‘most a million, and always uses “please”.
She has a dog called Gretchen who is unlike any other,
And next to Gretchen she loves best her father and her mother.
I like to listen to her jokes – we have a lot of fun -
And she often helps her daddy when he just can’t think of one.

This project helps me realize how amply I am blessed. Now on to digging deeper into the treasure chest.

My husband has been cleaning out our attic, and my box of collected treasures has emerged from the clutter. I’ve scooped out just the first layer, so let’s call this post the first in a series. There are sure to be more.

In this tranche were all those charms I thought I’d lost, some religious relics, including my First Holy Communion book, an Immaculate Conception medal and an honorable mention certificate from Saint Dominic’s Catholic School in Shaker Heights, Ohio. There were a few old pictures, lots of cards and letters and my photo album from summer semester in Spain.

My favorite relic to be unearthed was an autograph book I got as a souvenir of Disneyland when my father took me there in 1969. I scored no celebrity autographs, unless you count that of the five-year-old daughter of the TV comedy writer with whom we stayed in L.A.

I didn’t wear a watch on that trip. I do remember asking my Dad what time it was about every 10 minutes. When I let him sign the first page of my autograph book, he wrote, “It’s twenty after ten.”

My Uncle Henry made note that he signed it on the weekend man first walked on the moon—which had nothing to do with the poem he penned:

Saint Monica, Saint Bernadette,
Her patron saints, don’t give up yet,
For though you’ve seen the demon’s taint,
You’ve seen the promise of a saint.
Imp or angel, bad or bonnie,
In equal portion, that’s our Monnie.

The other pages hold what we all know as autograph book rhymes. Things like:

Don’t worry if your pay is small, and if your jobs are few.
Remember that the mighty oak was once a nut like you.

Remember the girl in the city. Remember the girl in the town.
Remember the girl who ruined your book by writing upside down.

See you in the ocean, see you in the sea.
See you in the bathtub. Oops, pardon me.

When you’re in heaven and it gets hot,
Pepsi-cola hits the spot.

When you get married and live in a hut,
Send me a picture of your first little nut.

When you get married and you have twins
Don’t come to me for safety pins.

It tickles me and makes me laugh
To think you want my autograph.

Never kiss by the garden gate
Because love is blind but the neighbors ain’t.

When I turned 50, my father gave me his mother’s autograph book, which is dated 1927 — 42 years before I had christened mine.

Allow me to share a few ditties from my grandmother’s crackled pages:

Lock up thy heart, keep safe the key,
Forget me not, til I do thee.

I wish I were a bunny with a little tail of fluff.
I’d climb upon your bureau and be your powder puff.

Some write for money, some write for fame,
But I write for the honor of signing just my name.

Down by the river there lies a rock,
And on it is printed, “Forget me not.”

If you get married and live upstairs,
For heaven’s sake, don’t put on airs.

It’s now 43 years after Disneyland and this place is my autograph book. Won’t you please sign it?

You know the feeling. You’re deep in conversation and, mid-sentence, you can’t remember the name of a simple object or person’s name. I once worked myself into a panicked froth when it took me two hours to remember Roy Orbison. I knew the face. I knew the music—every lyric to every song. Just couldn’t retrieve the man’s name.

I’m here to tell you, officially, that my memory loss has advanced beyond nouns and into adjectives.

We were having dinner last night with some friends.

One was sharing her frustration with having two parents with Alzheimer’s Disease. Around the table, we knew too many people who had suffered from the awful disease and had far too many friends caring for loved ones with dementia. We talked about Alzheimer’s specifically and dementia in general and pondered how memory loss has become so prevalent.

Someone questioned whether dementia truly is an epidemic, or that we’re just hearing more about it. I posited that perhaps we are more aware because there are large facilities that now house dementia patients, whereas in prior generations, a doddering grandparent simply lived with his or her family, blending into the background of everyday life.

One of our dinner guests observed that even the term dementia seemed to be relatively recent. Back when Granny lived with her kids and grandkids, no one referred to Alzheimer’s or memory loss. There was another word.

Yes, there was another word. But what in the world was it?

Around the table, we all tried to remember. How did we refer to old people who had lost their memories? What was that less politically correct, more descriptively exact, word that we no longer use?

The conversation became uncomfortable. No one could remember this simple adjective.

I told our friend, “Stop trying to remember. It’ll come to you eventually. But when you do remember, even at 3 o’clock in the morning, call me. I’ll be up anyway with age-related insomnia.”

Shortly after our friends pulled out of the driveway, our phone rang. I answered.

“Hello?”

“Senile!”

A rule of thumb:

Hilarious – good.
Hysterical – bad.

Perhaps that’s oversimplifying things a bit, but it serves as a helpful reminder that each word has its own distinctive meaning.

With common misuse, the distinction has grown more subtle.

“Hysterical” and “hilarious” are not interchangeable. Yes, online dictionaries have added one as a synonym of the other in recent times, but I’m not buying it.

As a matter of instruction, “hysterical” means to be in emotional shock. Some of its most common synonyms include: irrational, panic-stricken, jumpy, nervous and anxious.

People often describe movies or books or television shows or comedians as hysterical; therein lies the danger.

I suppose it could be accurate to describe a movie as hysterical. That is, if hysteria is a predominant theme. Theoretically, Titanic could be called hysterical, but it certainly is not hilarious.

One might call a comedian hysterical. He might be funny, hilarious, in fact, but is he shrieking uncontrollably? Ben Stein, for example, can be hilarious, but he is never hysterical.

When something is extremely funny, it is hilarious. Full of hilarity. When a person is extremely funny, she is hilarious. If she is having a hissy fit, she is hysterical. Remember, hissy derives from hysteria.

I could say that I found something so hilarious that I became hysterical. But it is I who was hysterical, not the thing that I found hilarious.

There’s the lesson for today. Your homework: Keep an ear out for one week and report back on how often you hear hysterical misused. Extra credit: Correct the offenders and hope they take it in good spirit and don’t become hysterical.

What are the chances that Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy would visit on the same night? Pretty slim, feared my son. The problem? We were 2,500 miles from home.

Suddenly the idea that the Tooth Fairy wouldn’t be able to find him was troubling. This fueled further doubt that Santa himself would be able to find us in Arizona. My child slept anxiously that night, but awoke to abundant reward.

As my son wondered how both Santa and the Fairy were able to find us in a nondescript condo we had rented for the week, I offered a plausible theory:  Mr. Claus and Ms. Fairy had both gone to our house in Maryland to find no one there. Santa had a full bag and the fairy had some heavy coins to leave, but they wouldn’t dream of making their drops in an empty house.

The two teamed up and searched for clues as to where Joseph might be. They noticed three suitcases were missing, and very little food in the refrigerator, and no cookies left out on a plate. Just then they happened upon a copy of our itinerary. When no hotel was listed, they followed clues–souvenir coffee mugs and refrigerator magnets to home in on the city and state, perhaps a return address label from a Christmas card–to Joe’s grandmother’s condo, right next door to where we were staying. Bingo, working as a dynamic duo, they solved the mystery and deposited the treasure.

We returned to Arizona 15 months later. Just before leaving for the airport, as my husband and I checked to be sure the stove was off and all the doors and windows were locked, I found a small piece of blue notepaper, marked in my son’s printing:

Dear Easter Bunny,

We are at the Hilton East in Tucson.

Love,
Joseph

It’s almost Easter; does the bunny know where you are?

Having been to scores of concerts, I’ve seen most of the musical greats live on stage, even met one or two. I still listen to all my favorite recordings, singing along and reliving the highlights of my career as an avid listener.

But I rarely go to see these idols live anymore. It often pains me to see how they’ve aged, how some have lost their ability to sing as they used to. Aging is a natural part of life, I know; I just prefer to remember the legends as they were.

Bruce Springsteen still is as he was. Only better.

I’ve told you before that I’ve been to more Springsteen concerts than I can count, the first one 37 years ago. As many Springsteen concerts as I’ve attended, I hadn’t been to one since I was in my 20s. I’m now in my 50s, as were most of the fans filling Washington, D.C.’s Verizon Center Sunday night, some of whom have spawned a whole new generation of fans.

If you’re a fan, I don’t need to tell of the magic of Bruce. If you’re not, then you likely already quit reading after the third paragraph.

This isn’t a concert review; rather, just a recap of the impressions occupying my consciousness in the afterglow of the evening.

Bruce Springsteen is a man who . . .

• At the age of 62, is as fit and energetic as he was at 25–and plays a better guitar than ever.
• Speaks out boldly for his passions—personal, professional and political.
• Might not enunciate his lyrics clearly, but has millions of fans sing along verbatim.
• Still looks on the outside like the rugged bad boy we all fell in love with, but has mellowed into a sensitive and humble man who isn’t afraid to sing about Jesus and end his show with a “God bless.”
• Has brilliantly mastered the art of musical orchestration and stage production to the extent it seems impossible to top.
• Deeply misses, nearly to tears, his friend and saxophone player Clarence Clemons.
• Had the wisdom to bring in Clarence’s nephew, Jake Clemons, to fill the Big Man’s big shoes and throw in four additional horns for good measure.
• Has proven it’s possible to work successfully, side by side, every day, with one’s spouse.

Bruce gave 20,000 lucky fans three hours of musical muscle for their money. And while he was in town, he saw to it that wounded veterans from Walter Reed Army Medical Center, as well as those served by DC Central Kitchen, were included in the magic.

Yes, indeed. The man’s still got it.

More…

For a real review, today’s Washington Post says it more eloquently than I, and had more space to work with: Read David Malitz’ excellent account.

Previous Word Nymph pieces:

The Boss
Big Dream

I just thought I’d get that out there.

The plan was to leave his health out of the blog—and all is well now—but he and I could not let a recent lab report go unlampooned.

Now that we know all is well, I can report that the first two months of the year here in Nymphland were focused on my husband’s diagnosis with a Stage 2 malignant melanoma on his left ear, for which he had surgery but for which, fortunately, no follow-up treatment was necessary.

During suture removal, a suspicious speckle was spotted inside his navel.

The good news came in by phone that this abdominal anomaly isn’t particularly worrisome, though he’ll be going in later today for a bit of surgical scraping and scooping, just to be on the safe side. Doctors warned him that his bellybutton could end up in a different place, which I’m imagining might be on his left shoulder or behind his right knee.

Yesterday we received the full pathology report of February’s “umbilicus punch biopsy,” which had my husband and me in stitches. So to speak.

You think you know a man after 29 years, then you learn he has an exaggeratedly reticulated epidermis. Furthermore, there are nests scattered in the vicinity of his periumbilical region. Where the rest of us store spare lint, he carries around a lentiginous dysplastic nevus, which “cannot be fully appreciated.”

The pathologist closed with: “Thank you for sending this most interesting case in review.”

Off I go this afternoon to take my husband downtown for his re-excision. May you have a Happy Nevus Appreciation Day.

Be honest: How many of you are checking out your own navels right now?

I trust he has taken a regimen of prophylactic Mylanta to secure his sensitive system from the plattersful of barbeque and hush puppies he’ll gobble along the campaign trails of Mississippi and Alabama this weekend.

He has already bragged about eating “a biscuit” and liking grits, believing this will endear him to Dixie delegates he seeks. At least he used grits, plural, after having professed his love of “sport” in Daytona, at the risk of defeating the purpose of yukking it up with the NASCAR crowd.

Romney boasted about having mastered “y’all,” as if contracting a second person plural were colloquial rocket science.

I informally canvassed cohorts in the southern states to learn what they might contribute to my fictitious briefing book. What terms must the candidate master to prove he’s southern-savvy?

One person cautioned Mr. Romney to stay far away from the Paula Deen method. Simply inserting extra syllables is only patronizing and insulting.

Some suggestions came in under what I believe is an erroneous assumption that good grammar doesn’t matter in the South:  ”We’re gonna win this thing, Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise” and “I need me some red eye gravy or my grits just ain’t right.” If Candidate Romney buys into these in next week’s primary elections, he might as well not come back for the general.

Some submissions I received were right out of the stereotypical Paula Deen phrase book: “I’m plumb tuckered out,” “I’m fixin’ too go down the road a piece” and “Oh my Lorward.” Most came from people who might delight in poor ol’ Mr. Romney’s taking bad advice.

When I sent out my solicitations yesterday, I was hoping to get a more esoteric glossary, containing a few of the words and phrases—actual, not stereotypical—I had to learn upon marrying into a Southern family. This page from my briefing book will help the southern gentleman from Massachusetts fit in with voters in Miss-sippi and Alabama without a single y’all.

Romney-speak:  I beg your pardon?
Translation:  Do what?

Romney:  When you enter the voting booth on Tuesday, be sure to press the button for Mitt Romney.
Translation:  When you enter the voting booth on Tuesday, be sure to mash the button for Mitt Romney.

Romney:  It appears that would be so.
Translation:  I reckon.

Romney:  In the debates, the other candidates and I took turns addressing the issues.
Translation:  In the debates, the other candidates and I took time about addressing the issues.

Romney:  I’m spending my own money, so put your checkbook away.
Translation:  I’m spending my own money, so put your checkbook up.

Ten thousand bucks you can come up with more?

Either way, a childhood memory sprung to mind yesterday when a friend shared that she overheard her little tike singing in the bathtub: “I’m sexy and I know it.”

She wondered if her child knew what exactly he was claiming and how she would respond if asked to define “sexy.”

Immediately I buckled myself in and zoomed back to 1967, when I used to do my second grade homework in my father’s office in our basement.

One day my parents took me down to the office and asked me about some writing on the wall beside the desk. Printed in pencil, in a column, was an indiscernible word, in several different spellings, such as:

secksapeel
ceksepele
zexipeal
setsapile

I don’t remember why I worked this exercise of mine on plaster rather than paper; perhaps I planned, once I figured it out, to go back and erase it. But I didn’t. And I was busted.

Defending my devilish actions in my little Catholic school uniform, I pointed out that I was simply trying to figure out how to spell a word. When I told them what it was, their faces showed a mix of shock and stifled amusement. They asked me where I had heard this word and why I was interested. It was a television commercial for something this seven-year-old, not the target demographic, found appealing.

Thank Heaven they didn’t make me go to confession.