Category Archives: Foibles and Faux Pas

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

May 19, 2010 · 8:09 am

The other woman

My husband is in love with Ms. Garmin Nüvi.  It happened the moment he heard her voice through our new GPS. 

This came as a big surprise to both of us.  He is among the last to fall for any high tech gadget.  He has the most distant relationship with his cell phone.  After four years, he has yet to record a voice mail greeting and usually doesn’t recognize when it rings that someone is calling him.  He recently bought his first home computer but, alas, after several weeks, it still has no software.  He will probably never own a Blackberry.

He bought me the Garmin nüvi for Mother’s Day, intending it would be mine alone to take on business trips. 

Last weekend we went out of town for a wedding, so we took it along to try it out.  My husband was astonished that this woman, who spoke sternly and resolutely through the speaker, knew where we were going and, further, how to get us back on course when we stopped for gas. 

When she spoke, he answered.  “Thanks, sweetheart.”  When she said to turn right, he said, “I’ll do that, sweetheart.”  “What next, sweetheart?” 

As we headed out to the various wedding events, my husband asked me whether we were taking “her” with us.  It was starting to feel like a threesome.  Only she was the one being called “sweetheart.”

After the wedding Saturday night we went back to our hotel and stepped into the elevator.  An electronic voice announced, “Going up.”  My husband gasped, “It’s her!”

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May 13, 2010 · 7:54 am

iOld and iTired

The older I get, the more my thoughts begin with “back in my day . . .”

In this season of weddings and graduations, I think back on how little technology was available when I went through both. 

I made it through college using a typewriter, a percolator and a hot plate.  That’s it.  My husband and I planned our wedding using a three-ring binder, two packs of index cards and some Post-its.

This week, I have backed up my computer files, synced my calendar to my phone, taken and downloaded photos, updated my music collection for a car trip, and set up my new GPS system.

Tending to these tasks involved six different devices. 

It struck me yesterday–as I looked down at the tangled heap of cases, chargers, adapters and USB cables going every which way into the two computers that hum simultaneously, side by side, on my desk–that I too would need a recharge.

iTunes is running on the Dell, syncing the music with my iPod.  The HP laptop is putting my calendar on my iPhone.  The Nikon is plugged in, also to the Dell, and uploading photos to Shutterfly.  Directions from Mapquest are shooting out of both printers, just until I am weaned on to the Garmin.

Meanwhile, the Garmin is undergoing online product registration, but calls for a USB connection to complete the registration.  I see that no USB cable came with the Garmin.  While waiting on hold with Garmin’s customer service line, I type my dilemma in to a Search box.  It tells me the product comes with no USB cable; I need to buy one from their online store or use a cable from another appliance.  I try each and every cable before me, one by one, searching for compatibility.  Eureka, the cable from the WD external hard drive fits!  It’s always the last one you try.

What I wouldn’t give for my Polaroid Swinger.  The only cord it had attached it to my wrist.

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May 1, 2010 · 6:52 am

Coming of age

Word Nymph has lived online for a whole month now.   That’s seven in blog years.

Her identity is evolving.  Before making her online debut, it took a month just to come up with a suitable name.  So what’s with this name, Word Nymph?  It must seem odd, especially to visitors who have recently stepped in.

The name was inspired by the purple-crowned wood nymph, a type of South American hummingbird.  There’s a loose parallel.  The Word Nymph speaks some Spanish and flaps her wings insanely fast, but it ends there.  Oh, and she likes purple.

The word “nymph” and the image it evokes—playful, not fully formed, like a fairy—comes from Greek mythology.

As the Word Nymph was creating her online persona, she imagined a park where all could play, squeal and intermingle over topics of common interest.   Words happen to be her fancy.

The Word Nymph also likes to laugh, mostly at herself, so she enjoys telling of her own ridiculous foibles and skewed observations. 

On this first day of May, she is thrilled to have so many playmates actively jumping in, bringing her grins and giggles every day.  She is looking forward to the summer, when she and her online buddies can kick off their Keds, nibble on Good Humor bars and keep up the folly.

Please remember – Word Nymph takes a break on Sundays.   Anyone for Swinging Statue?

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April 24, 2010 · 7:50 am

Busted

I am pathologically compliant.  I obey the law, play by the rules and follow instructions. 

So you can imagine my shock yesterday morning when Central Casting sent their most type-cast North Carolina State Trooper to make me feel bad about myself.

Let me back up a bit.  I was driving home after a long week On the Road.  If you’ve been following my adventures (very un-Kerouac, I assure you), then you know I’ve been enjoying alone time in the car, listening to songs alphabetically on my iPod.  I am up to the F’s.  It was a sunny spring morning and I was singing along with Jackson Browne’s “For a Dancer” when I noticed a twinkle behind me.  I pulled over.

“Ma’am, I clocked you going sixty-nine in a fifty-five,” the trooper said.  I said nothing.

He took my license and registration and, when he returned from his cruiser, handed me a Uniform Citation and said, “This shows I caught you going seventy in a fifty-five mile-per-hour zone.”  I thought to myself, 70 in a 55 sounds serious.

I responded, “You said I was going sixty-nine.”

“I was confused,” he said.  “The last person I pulled over was going sixty-nine.  You were going seventy.”  That’s fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit.  He acceded that the speed limit on that road switches back and forth from 55 to 60, but it happened to be 55 where he stopped me.  He said, “I suggest you appear in court.”

I asked once again why he wrote the citation for 70 mph when he initially told me I was going 69. 

He essentially said, “I’ll see you in court” and walked away.

I sat there staring at the “Defendant Copy” of the citation.  I have never been a defendant.   I’ve never even seen the inside of a court room.  Suddenly I felt ashamed.  My compliance streak was busted and so was I. 

So I got back on the road, stayed in the right lane, and went exactly the speed limit the rest of the way home.  For 200 miles, one aggressive driver after another tried to run me off the road.  Where were all the troopers in North Carolina and Virginia then and why was no one nabbing the speed demons who were on my tail?  Automotive sodomy must be legal in those states.

I’ll be travelling by air next week and will be happy to be out of the car for a while.  Now if I can just stay alert during the boarding announcements (see Word Nymph April 12).

Note:  Just a reminder that Sunday is a no-blog day for the Word Nymph.  This week she’ll be curled up reading the North Carolina traffic code.

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April 22, 2010 · 7:37 am

Stop her before she crafts again

Our beloved Erma Bombeck left us 14 years ago today and oh, how we miss her.  In honor of this talented, yet humble icon–who entertained readers with stories of everyday situations–I’d like to pause today to share a personal story of my own:

When will I learn?  I have no aptitude for crafts.  Granted, my first paying job was at a yarn store.  I was hired after, desperate for the job, I overstated my knowledge of knitting, crocheting, embroidery, cross-stitch, crewel, latch-hook and macramé.  Despite my best efforts to learn, my yarn career didn’t last long, especially with seasoned needle-workers coming in to the store seeking tutelage on elaborate projects. 

I don’t decoupage.  I can’t even frame a lousy picture.  The problem is, I have great ideas—grand visions for craft projects.  I can visualize an extraordinary outcome but lack the ability to execute ordinary steps. 

Case in point:  I had the brilliant idea to take a 25-year-old clipping from my college newspaper and create a plaque for a former classmate.  I bought the wood, the glue, the shellac and a good brush.  I picked up a fancy hanger to affix to the back so she could display this memento in her home.  I was so heavy handed with both the glue and shellac that they bled through the faded newsprint, rendering the article and its photo indiscernible.  This also rendered the shellac unable to dry.  Problem was, it was to be a birthday gift at a party taking place at Morton’s Steakhouse that night.  I set the plaque outdoors so it would dry and the toxic odor would fade.  No dice.  With no other choice, I slipped it gingerly into a gift bag and took it to Morton’s.  I set it by my feet during dinner, pretending to ignore the strong odor.  When the time came for gifts, I handed my friend the bag.  As she pulled out the wet, sticky plaque, the dining room filled with noxious fumes.  She looked at the plaque, politely trying to figure out what the heck was glued to it.  She flipped it over.  She and I both noticed that the hanger had been nailed in upside down.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Recently I went to the craft store with another vision, a personalized tote bag for my mother to carry her medical files around to her various doctors.  I purchased a pretty pink canvas bag and some iron-on lettering for adorning the bag with cute and inspiring phrases.   I was a little heavy handed with the iron.  Ironed the whole bag shut.

As if my failed projects aren’t reminder enough of my deficit, I think I saw the security guard at Michael’s tacking my picture up on their Do Not Craft list.

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April 12, 2010 · 7:04 am

Blink and you’ll miss it

In order to compose today’s blog entry, I had to perform some computer forensics.

Used to learn what a victim or perpetrator was doing in the days or minutes before a crime, computer forensics help create a chronicle of events leading up to the time such crime occurred.  They tell investigators when the person in question was last online, what Web sites were visited, when e-mails were sent and to whom.

Following is what appears to have occurred on the morning of Friday, April 9th.

9:10 – Return rental car at Pittsburgh International Airport.

9:25 – Clear airport security.

9:30 – Arrive at Gate C51 for 10:21 flight to Washington Dulles.

9:31 – Experience passing amusement:  the Griswolds arriving at Wally World, “first ones here, first ones here!”

9:42 – Complete and save expense report for the trip.

9:50 – Older gentleman takes the seat next to me.

10:00 – Observe a few passers-by asking older gentleman for his autograph.  Listen in.

10:08 – Post the following on Facebook:  “Sitting in the Pittsburgh airport next to a hockey icon who, I’ve overheard from those lining up for his autograph, won the Stanley Cup in 1964.  Nice man but I don’t know his name.”

10:10 – Answer an e-mail while waiting for boarding announcement.

10:11 – Blink.

10:31 – Wake up.

10:32 – Ask older gentleman if flight to Dulles has begun boarding.  Older gentleman smiles and says, “You must be Monica Welch.  They paged you several times before your plane left.”

10:45 – Older gentleman boards his flight to Toronto, shaking his head and laughing with his fellow passengers.

10:47 – Call to ask client to deploy contingency plan for the 2 p.m. meeting on the narcolepsy drug—because I fell asleep. 

Postscript:  I still don’t know the name of that famous Stanley Cup winner, but he knows mine.

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April 6, 2010 · 7:47 am

Frenzied New Yorker

One of my great indulgences is The New Yorker magazine.  For anyone who savors the delicacy of the written word, The New Yorker is the crème de la crème.

I’ve never subscribed to this weekly magazine.  That would be like having a case of dark chocolate truffles delivered to your home every week.  Instead, The New Yorker always been a special treat, reserved for rare times of prolonged quietude—a coast-to-coast plane ride, a long weekend at the beach.

A few years ago, a friend who was moving out of the country transferred his subscription to me.  I never would have chosen to order this frivolous subscription but I won’t lie, I was aquiver with anticipation. 

The first issue came.  I started with the first pages and read each Going on About Town, including the off-off-off-Broadway performances.  As if I’d have the chance to pop into one.  Each day, I enjoyed a bit of the week’s issue, savoring the essays, poems and cartoons.  But it was a challenge to get through each issue before the next one arrived.  I’d see the new one come in and I’d work to finish the last.  I wouldn’t even peek at one until I’d finished the last. 

I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t appreciate the writing the way I always had because it had become a chore, a quest.  The weeks went by more and more quickly.  How could it be Monday already when I am only three-quarters finished with last week’s issue?  I was no longer savoring, I was binge reading.

Then it struck me – the image of Lucy Ricardo and Ethel Mertz, scoring their dream job at the candy factory.  They thought it would be enjoyable, even easy.  And it was, until the conveyer belt went into high gear.  The ladies struggled to wrap the truffles as the candies raced by, eating those there wasn’t time to wrap.  Not a bad assignment, enjoying chocolates while doing the job.  Then the shift supervisor shouted, “Speed it up!”  as the candies came at them at an impossible speed.  Cheeks and blouses were bulging with the chocolates that eventually made them ill.

And so it was with The New Yorker—too much of a good thing coming way too fast.  Mercifully, the subscription expired.

The New Yorker and I have made our peace.  We still meet every now and then, usually in an airport news stand in a city far away.  It is sweet.

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April 2, 2010 · 7:47 am

One away from the No Fly list

I am a fairly composed person and behave appropriately in most situations.  I demonstrate good manners and a respect for decorum and diplomacy.  Unless something makes me laugh.

I regularly make a fool of myself on airplanes, letting out squeals and snorts while watching an in-flight Mr. Bean video short, or muffling howls during a hilarious scene from a Steve Carell movie.  Recently, while reading A.A. Gill’s tongue-in-cheek review of Kentucky’s Creation Museum in Vanity Fair, I came close to being restrained by federal marshals.

There is something about an airplane that, for me, turns ordinary amusement into a full-blown uncontrollable spectacle. Perhaps it’s that people are already on edge, inconvenienced by security checkpoints and constrained by seatbelts in close quarters.  An airline cabin is a place where howling and snorting just aren’t done.

Perhaps it’s the sanctity of a quiet space that pulls the pin on my explosive laughter.  And I know it’s the same stifling sanctity that prompted Mary Richards’ painful laughing attack at Chuckles the Clown’s funeral in 1975.  It was one of television’s most memorable scenes.   A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants.  Mary, I feel your pain.

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April 1, 2010 · 7:22 am

Monica and Erma

In the book-turned-movie Julie and Julia, the character played by Amy Adams blogged about her pursuits to model the work of her idol, Julia Child. She shared her joys and frustrations as she plunged fearlessly into the metaphoric bouillabaisse of gourmet French cooking.  In her daily blog entries, she assessed her own success or failure to meet each challenge.

My idols are good writers.  They range from Pulitzer Prize winning authors (John Kennedy Toole) and news journalists (Helen Thomas) to skilled story tellers (Craig Dees) and clever bloggers (Carla Curtsinger of The Sticky Egg).

I especially love humor writers.  Erma Bombeck is my Julia Child.  If I were to embark on a project à la Julie and Julia, it would be terribly humbling.  I dare not even try to model Erma’s artistry.  Even so, as I look back on my 50 years, it would be tempting to wonder whether I suffered as many pitfalls and pratfalls as I did just so I could amuse my friends with stories of my own foibles.

Even though I am the child of two very funny people, one a professional humorist, my true talent lies not in producing humor but rather in passionately appreciating it.  And while this blog may be a platform for evangelizing about delicious prose, I hope you’ll also allow me to also tell an occasional personal story in homage to this dear icon.

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