I tacked a day onto this week’s business travel to visit my mother in Phoenix. We had a nice time, and now off to work I go.
There’s one thing I’d like to tell you about the visit, only because it speaks volumes about how I got to be the way I am.
Before I arrived, my mother had been going through some boxes of family mementos. She had taken a few relics out to share with me. There were some old family photos, obituaries, news clippings (one about my grandfather, who was hit by a truck in 1939). In with the collection was a list of mixed metaphors.
My mother and her brother had collected these over the years. She and her siblings were blessed—or cursed—with a reverence for the English language and genetically endowed—or cursed—with a perverse sense of humor.
My cousins might be surprised to learn that these treasures, which until now were only traded aloud at family parties, dwell on typed pages (I’m bringing you copies). I trust it’s okay to share these here, as I presume the utterers have either passed on or aren’t reading this blog. While my uncle collected many during an illustrious career, my mother gathered others from friends and talk show hosts.
I did share a few from memory in earlier posts on malapropisms, mixed metaphors and other mix-ups, but here’s from the official family archive:
“That will take the steam out of their sails.”
“I’ll get that done by tomorrow, come hook or crook.”
“I’ve been beating my head against the bushes all day.”
“Oh, well, it’s all water over the bridge.”
“You could have knocked me over with a 10-foot pole.”
“Now the fat’s in the frying pan.”
“He’s really treading on thin water.”
“It was as hard as pulling hen’s teeth.”
“You can’t beat blood out of a dead horse.”
“How the Sam Hell!”
“I’m afraid there is no outlook in sight.”
“All right gentlemen, let us circumcise our watches.”
“That guy’s got a rough hoe.”
“He’s still green behind the ears.”
“That guy just beats to a different drummer.”
Commentary on something bad: “Well, that’s the luck of the Irish!”
After a harrowing visit to the dentist: “When that drill hit a nerve, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”
On excellence: “He was head above shoulders.”
And my personal favorite: “When in Rome, you have to dance to the music.”
Have a good week and keep your metaphors separated.
How did All My Children end? Did Erica Kane find happiness? Is there peace in Pine Valley? Is Susan Lucci finally free to overindulge in Boston creme donuts and Popeyes chicken and biscuits?
“The man turned his friend into police.”
It’s interesting work and I enjoy it. There’s only one drawback. By the end of every project, I’m convinced I have the disease. In my mind, I’ve had ADHD, Alzheimer’s, Narcolepsy, Colitis and some pretty serious neurological conditions. I imagine there are also some pretty nasty viruses brewing in my system.
As best I understand it, Misophonia is a low tolerance for certain kinds of sounds, thought be the result of abnormal connections between the autonomic and limbic systems of the brain. People who suffer from Misophonia aren’t just annoyed by their triggers. They’re enraged.
The last two nights, I had conflicts that precluded my watching national events or otherwise attending to entertainment needs. I’m still catching up on what happened.
The San Francisco Board of Supervisors will consider legislation requiring naked people to place something under their bottoms when they sit in public or eat in a restaurant. Let’s hope the bill goes so far as to prohibit that something from being a restaurant-issued napkin. Ewww. Double ewww.
Word Nymph 