Category Archives: Foibles and Faux Pas

Word Nymph laughs at herself, while implicitly paying tribute to Erma Bombeck

July 27, 2010 · 9:22 am

Not the end of the world

You may have noticed that Word Nymph didn’t post yesterday.

Following 100 consecutive daily posts (except Sundays), the streak was broken yesterday by a series of outages here in the Washington, D.C., area.  The irony is that yesterday I had planned to send out a hello-world-I’m-here notice about the 100th post.  The one person who asked me yesterday, “hey, where’s my blog?” pointed out that one never says a word when one is on any kind of a streak.  Like a pitcher headed toward a perfect game, I learned that I was about to speak too soon about Word Nymph‘s streak.

I don’t know if our power and cable outages made national news–because I have no TV service.  Internet comes and goes, and it was reported this morning that it could be some time before power is restored to the region.  The Washington area takes enough heat about its drivers.  You can only imagine what happens at a dark intersection.  Most of us are aware that, by law, intersections without working traffic lights are to be treated as four-way stops but, in typical Washington fashion, there is wide interpretation.

Please accept my apologies for yesterday’s lapse.  Most readers are now thinking, there was a lapse?

I know I don’t owe anyone an explanation, but it’s just too good not to share. 

I’ll first say that my neighborhood didn’t lose power; we seldom do.  We’re a little unexplained oasis.  But we lost cable Sunday afternoon.  Around the region, trees snapped like matchsticks all over our county, taking power lines and, tragically, the life of a young boy who could not get out of the way in time.

Yesterday morning, determined to not break the Word Nymph streak, I set out to find Internet.  I first drove to the home of my aunt and uncle, to use their Internet and also pick up a bee removal suit my husband wanted to borrow.  I arrived at their house to find a note taped to their door: No power, no phone service, no cell service, back later.  I decided to try and find them to make sure they were all right.  Given the downed trees and power lines and dark intersections, driving was a challenge.  I drove to five places I thought they might be riding out the crisis–my aunt’s nail salon, her health club, Macy’s, the movie theater and Starbucks.  I planned Starbucks for last so I could settle in and use the wireless.  Everything was closed–including Starbucks. 

I went home, resigned to the unavailability of Internet and worried about my aunt and uncle, and went out back to clean up the storm debris.  As I was filling a large bag with broken limbs, I looked up to see another large bag being hurled toward me from over the six-foot fence.  I approached it cautiously, as I had been feeling all day that this might just be the end of the world.  I peeked inside and saw something wrapped in netting.  It was a bee removal suit.

I opened the gate to find my aunt and uncle.  I told them I had been worried sick and had looked everywhere I could think they might be.  I scolded them, “Where have you been?!” 

“Holy Cross Hospital,” my aunt said.  I hadn’t thought to try the hospital. 

“Are you all right?  What were you doing at the hospital?”

“Getting coffee.”

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July 22, 2010 · 7:54 am

Coward or careless?

In matters of public affairs, we often hear about a person shooting himself in the foot.  Typically, this means the person has exercised either poor judgment or incompetence, thus jeopardizing his cause.

Frankly, I’ve never given the expression much thought.  It’s a descriptive image that accurately depicts an easy but serious error.  The phrase is used, perhaps overused, in wide range of personal, business and political contexts.

My mother recently conveyed to me a peeve.  She wondered why so many people, including articulate public speakers, misuse this expression, and not just use it incorrectly but use it essentially as a direct opposite of its real meaning.   

I didn’t know this, but she explained that shooting themselves in the foot was what some soldiers did during World War I to get out of going into battle.  It was done deliberately and out of fear or cowardice.  One source explains that shooting oneself in the foot is “to deliberately sabotage an activity in order to avoid obligation, though it causes personal suffering.”

Clearly, to shoot oneself in the foot comes from such wartime acts.  But these days, we hear a lot less about soldiers intentionally wounding themselves and more about people at home accidentally shooting their firearms and wounding themselves, often in the foot.

So it’s easy to see how the expression’s meaning morphed from intentional to accidental, from being caused by fear to being caused by stupidity.

As I contemplated whether there might be a scenario that encompassed both meanings, a long-repressed childhood memory came to mind that, until now, has remained a secret.  When I was in the seventh grade, I jumped six feet off a jungle gym, hands first, intentionally spraining my wrist, to get out of a piano lesson.

The daughter of two musicians and a lover of music, I still regret not being able to play the piano.  I guess I really shot myself in the foot.

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July 16, 2010 · 7:52 am

Real life

Greetings from Lake Chautauqua, where I’ve been with about 25 family and friends for a mid-week reunion.  Aunts, uncles, a niece, four nephews and another 25 or so second cousins, cousins removed several times and family friends who’ve been in my life since day one were all here in western New York for the gathering.

It’s fun hearing everyone’s news and even more fun re-hearing the old stories.  Yes, it is true that I was “baptized” with gin by a drunken lobbyist while in my baby carrier atop a night club piano.

If you saw the movie Dan in Real Life, you have a picture of what it is like here—right down to the used book store in the center of town.  Dozens of relatives, complete with their successes and worries and baggage and history, under a roof a wee bit too small for the crowd, loudly living the joys and bumps of real life.  

The fact that I write a blog has come up periodically, and people have asked if I’d be writing any stories from the week.  I simply said, only if they are blogworthy.  That was all it took for one aunt who set out actively to achieve blogworthiness.

Wednesday alone, we fished off the dock for hours, undertook a hopelessly disastrous group craft project, which I orchestrated after temporarily forgetting my deficit in this area.  We divided into teams for a putt-putt tournament, swam, ran, played basketball, attended my father’s brilliant performance before an audience of 5,000 at the Chautauqua Institution’s amphitheater and had a loud dinner with 50 spirited guests. 

Was it blogworthy?  You decide.  I must report though that my 76-year-old aunt succeeded in achieving blogworthiness in her own right, on the mini golf course.  On the 12th hole, she stepped back from a rolling ball, into a row of raised bricks, and fell backwards, landing simultaneously on her tail bone and her head.  She got up and finished the remaining six holes. 

It takes a lot to stand out in this crowd, but everyone tries.

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July 15, 2010 · 8:39 am

Buzz off

You never can tell with bees.

We all remember Winnie the Pooh, a bear of very little brain, trying to outsmart bees in a half-baked quest to steal their honey by floating up to a tree branch with a balloon.

“Wouldn’t they notice you underneath the balloon?” Christopher Robin asked. “They might or they might not,” Pooh answered.  “You never can tell with bees.”

Oh, they will.  Those mean, nasty, hurtful little demons.  You bet they’ll notice you and come after you with every trace of their vengeful wickedness.

If you can’t tell, I hate bees.

Last summer we called in a bee man after neighbors complained that there were yellow jackets coming from our yard.  The bee man came and, of course, there was nothing flying around.  He asked me to describe them—do they look like yellow jackets, hornets, wasps, bumble bees, what?  What do I know, they look like bees!  I don’t know one from another, I just hate ’em.  They sting.  The sting hurts, even kills.  I can’t enjoy time on our back deck because it’s them or me, and they won’t leave. 

Anyway, one or two flew by and I pointed them out to the bee man, who said, “Those are honey bees, I can’t kill honey bees.”  Then the neighbor walked over.  I reported, it’s honey bees.  She said, “Oh, well, you can’t kill honey bees!”

Well why in the world not?  Yeah, yeah, balance of nature, blah, blah.  Stupid nature. 

I can probably live without honey.  I can live without flowers if it means I can complete a crossword puzzle on a summer afternoon without being harassed by evil apiarian attackers.  And that infuriating buzz.  Heck, as much as I love Jerry Seinfeld, I didn’t even see Bee Movie. 

Sorry to drone on so, but get this.  I’ve just discovered that a colony of pollinating pests has built a hive in the rocker on our front porch.  And they were none too happy when I went out to sweep and unknowingly moved their cushy condo.

Well, I plan to cut them off at their little bees’ knees if it’s the last thing I do. 

Anyone have a hazmat suit?

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June 26, 2010 · 7:45 am

Hair zombie

This week I made the unfortunate discovery that I left both my hair dryer and my straightening iron at our beach rental.  Chances are slim that I’ll ever see them again so, to get this mop of mine under control, I went out and replaced them.

I went to a good salon and invested in the deluxe Chi Ceramic Hair Styling Iron (because I might want to curl my hair after I straighten it).

I brought it home, pulled it out of the box and consulted the instruction booklet. 

Under Safety Instructions it said, “Never use while sleeping.”

I am aware that some people walk and talk in their sleep, but style their hair? 

Just because it was right there, I pulled out the booklet for the blow dryer, manufactured by a different company.  “Never use while sleeping.”

Now there are lots of women who wish we could wake up in the morning fully coiffed for the day, but I doubt we’ve ever considered doing our hair before we wake up.

I couldn’t resist going through the drawer in our house where we keep all our appliance paperwork, to see what else jumped out.  “Do not allow children to play in dishwasher.”  Darn, now I’ll have to buy a swing set.

No doubt the Internet is brimming with examples of silly safety warnings.  Do you have any of your own?

Reminder:  Word Nymph takes Sundays off.  Wonder if she’ll wake up for church tomorrow with a beautifully styled do.

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June 24, 2010 · 7:50 am

Modern maturity

I have gotten used to the notion of a United States president who is younger than I am.  I sat through many Back-to-School Night presentations by 22-year-old teachers, without judging.  I am even okay with being older than Supreme Court justice nominee Elena Kagan.

But I got a kick-in-the-gut blow as I pulled the AARP Magazine out of the mailbox and saw on the cover Valerie Bertinelli, who happens to be four months and 10 days younger than I.  By the way, she’s five days older than Elena Kagan.

AARP The Magazine comes addressed to my husband, though I am AARP-eligible.  I never had the guts to peel back the cover until yesterday—had to read about Valerie.   After all, her 1970s TV character, Barbara Cooper, and I were practically sisters.

The reason I never ventured inside the magazine?  I just knew there’d be articles about all sorts of scary aging topics, and the ads – nothing I’d need, to be sure.

I was surprised.  There’s an article on Sex and the City’s Cynthia Nixon and her work in promoting cancer research.  She’s 44, in case you were wondering.  A big picture of George Clooney appears just inside the front cover.  What for?  Does it really matter?  There’s a nice piece on microbreweries around the country and a funny interview with Dave Barry.  I also learned that Sean Penn, a famed member of Hollywood’s Brat Pack, will turn 50 this summer.

The writing is pretty edgy too.

The ads?  No Depends, or Metamucil or Geritol (do they even make Geritol anymore?).   It’s no surprise that there are plenty of ads for AARP products and services, including motorcycle insurance.  There’s an ad for an AARP-sponsored concert featuring Gladys Knight, B.B. King, Los Lobos, Gloria Gaynor, Crosby, Stills & Nash and Richie Havens.  There’s also an ad for Dr. Scholl’s.  I know firsthand that those feel really good on 50-year-old feet but then I also wore their exercise sandals when I was 14.

The magazine’s featured recipe is for tandoori chicken, whereas I expected any recipe offered by AARP would involve smothering something in cream of mushroom soup.

And guess what else?  A big fat crossword puzzle!

I’m thinking I might need my own subscription.

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June 11, 2010 · 7:19 am

It’s time

This week I have been spending a fair amount of time in the air. 

I don’t travel as often as George Clooney in Up in the Air but, like George’s character, I am robotic in my process.  I go through security like a zombie—that’s the best way to do it, actually—and seldom get rattled.  I often rent cars on the other end and that too has become rhythmic.

I don’t even travel as often as many of my colleagues.  I have one client who flies out of Philly so often she’s been offered the airport employees’ discount at Auntie Anne’s.

Erma Bombeck wrote a popular book entitled, When You Look Like Your Passport Photo, It’s Time to Go Home.

While, sadly, I haven’t used my passport in quite some time, Erma’s book title swooshes through my head during some of my busiest domestic travel weeks.  In fact, during time spent recently in a boarding area (no, not that time), I drew up a list of it’s-time-to-go-home triggers.

It’s time to go home when:

  • you check the Departures monitor for your gate and have to look at your boarding pass to remember where you are going
  • you and the US Airways flight attendants recognize each other–and smile fondly
  • you use your travel toiletries more than the ones at home
  • you sit down in a restaurant and look for the seat belt
  • you achieve frequent shopper status at Taxco Sterling and HMS Newsstand (and Auntie Anne’s).  The woman at the Taxco counter at National Airport knows which pieces I already have.
  • you spot the same set of identically dressed adult twins twice (not yet, but it’s bound to happen!)

How about you?  When is it time for you to go home?

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June 9, 2010 · 7:13 am

Joined at the unbelted waist

If ever I was tempted to ask a stranger’s permission to snap a photograph, it was yesterday morning.  I still regret not doing so.  Definitely my loss–and yours. 

I had just taken a seat on the shuttle bus to an early plane when I saw a tall, well-dressed man boarding the bus.  I looked down for a split second, looked up and saw him getting on the bus, again.  Déjà vu?  I rubbed my eyes and shook my head and wished for a second cup of coffee.

I got on the plane and found my seat. 

I saw the same man, I’d say he was between 45 and 50 years old, walking down the aisle.  He was tall, wore a very good charcoal micro-plaid suit, a starched white shirt, gold cufflinks, odd-looking large-framed glasses and a bright red silk tie with a windowpane design and yellow accents.

Right behind him was another man, between 45 and 50.  He was tall, wore a very good charcoal micro-plaid suit, a starched white shirt, gold cufflinks, odd-looking large-framed glasses and a bright red silk tie with a windowpane design and yellow accents.

The two men found their seats across the aisle and one row back from me, but before they sat side by side, each took off his suit coat.  I confirmed the identical designer suits, shirts, ties, cufflinks, pocket squares, glasses, shoes and haircuts.  I strained my neck trying to compare the monograms on their identical French cuffs.

They had identical faces.  They were 45-year-old identical twins.  Dressed identically.

Then, as the suit coats came off, I saw that one was wearing red suspenders and the other, yellow.  Clearly, they were expressing their individuality.  In identical ways.

The plane took off.  As I looked over my shoulder, I was almost willing to risk air safety and turn on my camera phone, just to capture it—two oversized men, seated tightly side by side in Row 6 of a puddle jumper, impeccably and identically dressed, discussing college baseball.  And then, at exactly the same time, they fell asleep, their heads dipped forward, chins resting on their identical red silk ties.

Oh, to know their story.

The only clue they provided — each carried on board a paper shopping bag.  One from Brooks Brothers, the other, from the Supreme Court gift shop.

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May 24, 2010 · 8:03 am

Golden Girls

About 20 years ago, I worked in an office with an extraordinary group of people, many of whom were women my age.

When you spend more than a third of your day with the same people, you become close.  These women and I had our children together and, in the ensuing years, we shared everything–the challenges of working and rearing children,  strategies for making it through each day with our sanity, recipes, more laughs than can be counted and oceans of tears.  Some of these women have passed on, a sad reality that has brought the rest of us even closer.

Once, in the office lunch room, I suggested that maybe someday we would all live together, like the Golden Girls, which was at the height of its run on television.  I painted a picture of us sharing a house in Florida, driving around in a big convertible, with our head scarves tied tightly beneath our sagging chins.

In The Golden Girls series, which ran from 1985 to 1992, the characters played by Bea Arthur, Betty White and Rue McClanahan were in their early 50s.  Estelle Getty played Sophia, who was 70, tops.

The day before yesterday, I had lunch with three of my old girlfriends.  It hit me then that we had, alas, become the Golden Girls.

After settling in according to who needed to sit on which side of whose good ear, many parts of the conversation still had to be repeated.  There was, after all, background noise in the restaurant.

Next came the organ recital.  We discussed our health screenings, what conditions are plaguing us, which body parts ache and what meds we take.  We talked about our feet, debating which are worse, problems with the plantar or those of the metatarsal.

We talked about our emptying nests and commiserated about all it has taken to help our hatchlings fly on their own.  We also heard what it’s like to have an adult child move back home with all of her children.

We heard news of parents and more former colleagues who had passed.

We acknowledged the challenges of dwindling incomes and investments and compared notes on which chain restaurants offer two-for-one entrees on which weeknights.

We laughed at all the old lady behaviors we’ve adopted, such as finding a blouse we like and buying it in every color.

I shared that I had recently bought half a pie.

What brought our lunch to a close was a conversation about television–what shows we like and the fact that you can now can get TV programming through Netflix, which streams through the Wii. 

That was it.  Just the idea of “streaming through the Wii” sent us rushing to the ladies’ room, where we shared a final laugh and called it a day.

I haven’t bothered to take the Which Sex and the City Girl Are You quiz that’s going around in anticipation of the new movie.

Instead, I will start my own quiz and ask my peers to consider:  Which Golden Girl are you?

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May 22, 2010 · 8:06 am

Justice I am, without one plea

I am feeling a little Andy Rooneyish today.  I can almost hear him narrating this post.

Last month, I was handed a uniform traffic citation outside my home state.  Because there is a court date looming, I realize I am taking a risk by blogging about it.  But I can’t resist.

To recap, a state trooper pulled me over for driving 69 miles per hour in a 55 mile-per-hour zone.  Then he wrote me a ticket for 70 mph, which could have consequences beyond a simple fine.

Following this incident, I received letters from seven of that state’s law firms, pitching their services in helping me get the charge reduced or dismissed.

I finally sat down and combed through all the letters.  The first one hit me with its rash of unnecessary quotation marks, so I decided one way I’d sort the letters would be to weed out those that didn’t pass the Word Nymph test. 

Here’s where Andy Rooney comes in.  Just picture him sitting there behind his cluttered desk, amidst the open envelopes, letters and the waivers they all come with (in case you haven’t been so fortunate as to receive one).

The first letter comes from a “Community Oriented Law Firm.”  In quotes, but no mention of who said it.

The second claims, I am not a Big City law firm.  Is this supposed to be a selling point?  Or is Big City a municipality in that state?

The third letter talks about fines for running a Stop Sign or Red Light.  Capitalized.

The fourth displays the following tagline below the firm name:  honoring Him by serving those with legal challenges in our community with integrity and excellence.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

The fifth one touts its postage-paid envelope for sending back the waiver:  No stamp necessary!  Exclamation point! Wow, if this saves me 44 cents, then they’ve got MY business.

The sixth letter went straight to the bottom of the stack for twice using the obnoxious parenthetical numeral.  That’s in case you wouldn’t otherwise know  – Traffic offenses generally cause insurance points to be assessed against you that will result in increased premiums for a period of three (3) years.  For example, premiums can be doubled for a traffic violation that carries four (4) points.   I’m glad they made that clear, as I was absent the day they taught us how to spell numbers.

The seventh letter begins a paragraph with, If you have not already plead guilty…  Isn’t it pled?  Or pleaded?

The reality is that, if I choose to obtain legal representation, I place my fate in the hands of one of these firms.  And I do so humbly because I am being charged with a violation that has nothing whatsoever to do with grammar or punctuation.  Traffic law is the great equalizer.

Anyone out there have a cousin Vinny?

Word Nymph will resume on Monday, after spending Sunday asking forgiveness for her irreverent headline.

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