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.
Elvis died August 16, 1977. It was as big a deal then—my senior year in high school—as Michael Jackson’s sudden death a couple of years ago.
My brother had been Groucho for Halloween just that year. No, wait. It wasn’t Halloween; he just dressed and got made up like Groucho. I had a theatrical make-up kit that contained hair for mustaches and eyebrows, as well as greasepaint to draw circles under, and wrinkles around, the eyes. There’s a framed picture somewhere; I’ll have to see if I can find it. Stay tuned.
The year was 1973 and a wild trend was sweeping the nation. The fad and the name—streaking—had begun centuries earlier, but for some reason it made a big comeback in 1973.
So here’s how it works. The first player, who happened to be I the other night, surrenders her iPod to the leader, who pops it into the speaker system. When a song comes on, the rest of the group gives it a thumbs up, thumbs down or some sort of gesture that in essence means, make it stop—now. It’s a little like 
Since the inception of Survivor and American Idol, I’ve proudly shunned these competitions and rolled my eyes at my friends who get all wrapped up in discussing who’s faring how each week, using contestants’ first names as if they were their buddies.
My friends and contacts are embracing Google+, which I assume is Facebook’s latest competitor. I’m aware of the dynamic between the two companies and find it no surprise that Google has stepped onto the mat to give Facebook a run for its members.
Word Nymph 