Alphabet soup can be a warm, soothing treat on a brisk, cold day. However, what happens if your soup suddenly turns on you with a linguistic assault? Here are some tips to make sure your alphabet soup watches its language.
Start the conversation while the soup is still in the can. You can’t begin to stress early enough that bad language will not be tolerated in your kitchen or at the dining table. Remind the soup that there’s no place in your digestive tract for abrasive words.
Shake the can before heating. If nothing else, you’ll feel better.
Separate the talkative letters. Break up those cliques before they have a chance to act out. If they gang up and start yelling (example: AAAAAAAA), gently coax them to other areas of the bowl with a spoon. Re-heat to a low boil if they insist on remaining stuck to each other.
If you notice a repeated pattern of certain diabolical words or phrases, step away from the soup, leave the house immediately, and consult a priest. Or the Ghostbusters. (They’re ready to believe you.)
You know, vegetable soup tastes pretty good, and it’s good for you. Try that.
A few months ago (or maybe it was years…I’m still a little fuzzy on the whole time and space thing these days), I bought a few yards of material to begin sewing some masks. I quickly discovered that I had two problems to navigate–the last time I had used a sewing machine was when I was nine years old, and the machine I would use to make said masks had more than a few issues that, unbelievably, I wasn’t causing.
Since I am notoriously stubborn when it comes to learning new things, though, I went ahead and bought way too many yards of a print that I would feel comfortable wearing in public and insisted on learning how to make masks.
I cut fabric, I threaded the machine. I put the pedal to the metal and listened as the machine would lurch, then stop, then lurch again as I would forget to do something while I was untangling a mess, like putting my foot down.
I didn’t know how important “foot” would prove to be in this whole twisted tale of trying to do my part. However, when you use a sewing machine, you must lower the presser foot before you start feeding the fabric through, unless you just love trying to work your way down a knotted mess of thread to figure out how to undo what you just undid, or…yeah.
Additionally, you must have good control of the foot pedal as you work, unless your idea of a finished product involves threading needles through the delicate flesh in your hands. (No, the blood stains don’t give your mask “character.”)
In another ironic twist to the story, a few weeks after I had completed enough masks to keep several in my personal rotation (I had to block off significant chunks of time in the beginning to figure out what I was doing, obviously), I took a stroll down to the mailbox in my flip-flops after a rain shower. As I walked back into my garage, the rain plus my stellar sense of coordination plus the slick spot that every concrete floor has added up to a slip-and-slide ride resulting in my ending up on the ground with a lump on top of my foot. A very bruised lump.
The darkest part of the bruise eventually settled in to the shape of a sea turtle.
I suppose I could have used one of my unwearable early mask creations as a makeshift ice pack. Oh, well. My next home project might have something to do with the first aid kit. We’ll see.
If you’re anything like me (my apologies and best of luck if you are), you’ve probably noticed an uptick in two activities recently: eating and cleaning. You’re probably learning a lot more about the ingredients and products you use as well. I started looking at the box on my dryer sheets one day and began to wonder if I should be using this particular scent.
Things that typically stay outdoors aren’t always the most pleasant things, are they? Who has ever had an outside dog? They don’t always smell April fresh. In fact, they like to seek out the opposite of fresh, roll in it for a leisurely afternoon, and trot home to give your family a hug.
I live in an area where the outdoors seems to really want to come indoors right now. As the weather has grown warmer, it’s usually been flies.
Another outdoor bug made its way into my home recently, though, that I hadn’t been expecting.
It was a Saturday night (I think). I was in the process of changing from my daytime pajamas into my nighttime pajamas. I had only stepped away from the living room for about fifteen minutes or so. When I returned to resume wearing the contoured dent into my sofa, I saw something on the rug. I wasn’t wearing my glasses, and I wondered if I’d dropped some food from my fourth snacking session of the evening.
As I looked closer, though, I realized that I didn’t have anything in the pantry of that shape, consistency, size, or that moved by itself.
Wait. It’s MOVING?!?
I took off towards the pantry to get a fly swatter. At first glance, it looked like a night crawler. As my vision came into slightly better focus (and after I poked at it), it curled up into a tight coil.
A couple of scoops, some shrieking, and a flick out the front door later, I set it free to roam the neighborhood.
Those darn millennials. Thinking they can come into my house uninvited. The least it could’ve done was knock on the door or ring the doorbell. It has enough feet to do both.
Some things are just meant to stay outdoors, though. And if that’s part of what represents “outdoor fresh,” I think I’ll switch to new dryer sheets.
I’ve had some time on my hands lately; therefore, I have overthought.
Oh, who am I kidding? I would have overthought of this eventually, regardless of whether or not social gatherings were taking place…largely due to the fact that I didn’t take part in tons of social activities in the first place. Throw in a few germs of ANY KIND during your run-of-the-mill cold and flu season and I was going to avoid the plague like, well, the PLAGUE, finding my own socially-distant activities to pass the time.
So, in the course of my regularly-scheduled overthinking, I came upon something that has been mildly annoying to me for years–but fun for lots of other people, apparently–and decided to analyze it until it wasn’t fun anymore. (That’s how it works. I don’t make the rules. Sorry.)
I have always liked cats. I was around cats in my home until an unfortunate allergy that surfaced in college left me in tears (and hives) every time I found myself within a mile of a cat.
While I can’t help but think that some of them are out to get me (knowing that their dander and my weakness for their cute little faces are my kryptonite), I know they aren’t devoid of intelligence. They’re very smart creatures, in fact, even if they choose not to listen to people most of the time.
Which…brings me to my current overthought:
Somewhere along the way, someone else on the planet who thought cats were as cute as I do began to create memes about them. For some reason that I can’t quite determine, the word “hooman” began to emerge as part of the central tenet of cat vocabulary/language theory. It’s a theory that contends that if cats could speak, they would speak in terms…like that.
And it bugs me.
I’ve finally figured out why.
Sure, I’ll explain!
One would assume that if a cat picked up the English language, they would do so by listening primarily to their owners, right? Okay, then. How many times a day–in normal conversation–do you refer to another person as a “human”? You’re more likely to call them by name, or perhaps refer to “people” or “a person.” You might even say “you” relatively frequently. But I can’t think of the last time I called the person sitting next to me “human” as a way of getting their attention. Therefore, they would be far more likely to pick up on the other terms before anything would have the opportunity to morph itself into “hooman” form.
I know we’re living in a meme land where we assume cats can speak, but cats, in general, would probably say “meow” anyway. Why? Well, it appears to be easy for them, and it’s part of what makes a cat a cat. Plus, they’re stubborn. They’ll revert to what they know. “Meow” is familiar, and it’s succeeded in keeping cats fed and warm for many years now.
As for the other grammatical errors that generally appear as part of these memes, sure, not every person speaks in grammatically-accurate language all the time. However, I’m doubtful that cats listen exclusively to conversations that mangle subject-verb agreements. Remember, they’re putting this language together based on what they hear, and conversations not directed towards the cat will likely be taking place in their presence. And, finally…
Well, I didn’t quite think this far ahead. So…yeah. Overthought complete-ish.
I don’t know about you, but based on my observations of cats, they would probably place themselves more in a “cat”egory of perceived intellectual superiority above all other creatures, including their “hoomans.”
That is, until they fall off a ledge or something during a cat nap.
I have made plenty of jokes over the years about my math skills. However, I’m happy to sit down and work a Sudoku puzzle, despite the fact that I know I’ll be looking at lots and lots of numbers that I have to arrange into a logical sequence which only looks logical if you know how to work a Sudoku puzzle. (Meaning…the numbers all balance out in a way, but you don’t have to add them up; therefore, they are usually out of sequence and look a lot like trying to win a spelling bee by dividing your last name by the number 9.)
I suppose the part of my brain that makes turning complicated musical rhythms into actual music has helped shape my desire to figure things out in new and creative ways, even during the times that the puzzles start to look number-y and math-y based. Take, for example, the Rubik’s Cube–the bane of any 80’s kid’s existence.
I spent hours and hours trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube until I realized that the little colored squares were actually stickers. Sure, they never quite stuck back to the toy itself quite the same way once you peeled them off and moved them around, but I had found my creative loophole–or, in this case, loop-cube.
Okay, so the Rubik’s Cube wasn’t my forte, but Sudoku is something I can manage well. My absolute favorite games, though, are word games (for obvious reasons). I don’t get cross with crosswords (haha…see what I did th…never mind), and I enjoy a good word search.
I believe that participating in word games results in the exponential maturation of your vocabulary at a relatively formidable progression so as to create a exceedingly superior external representation of intelligence. Because, as you all know, sounding knowledgeable, well-informed, perceptive, astute, and brilliant helps you to attain a reputation as a illustrious and authoritative expert on a subject matter.
(Yeah, you learn big words. Or something like that.)
Playing those games also helps you develop your best puns and “dad jokes.” Even if expanding the ol’ vocabulary isn’t your goal with word games, everyone should have a few good puns in their back pockets.
Whatever your motivations, I think that exercising your brain–be it through puzzles, games, advanced calculus–is always a good idea. What are your favorite brain games to play? Be sure to chime in and let me know. I’ll just be in a corner somewhere trying to figure out the best glue for the stickers on my Rubik’s Cube.
I’ve seen “Sling Blade” at least 147 times. I can say that I wholeheartedly agree with one statement by Karl Childers.
“Coffee kindly makes me nervous when I drink it.”
You shouldn’t be. After all, in my “About Me” section on this very blog, I have described that I generally tend to take my coffee in the decaf flavor. I had a doctor once tell me that I should cut back on the caffeinated variety to control things like heartburn and…well, nervousness. Mmmhmm.
I LOVE coffee, though. I love the taste, the smell, and the warmth of a good cup o’ joe.
So, I save the caffeinated type for things like weekends. You know, when I have time to be nervous and suffer from heartburn.
I’m going to need a BIG cup, though, if I’m going to figure out all the bells, whistles, and doohickeys on my new camera. I’ll also need to stay awake to read the entire manual.
I tried to flip through the manual on a Friday evening when it wouldn’t have been a good idea to have a cup of coffee. Why? Because…sleep. Caffeinated coffee is generally a morning delicacy for obvious reasons. So, I spent a Friday evening lethargically pressing buttons and leafing through the instructions only to give up and decide that the task was better suited for a Saturday morning fueled by my good friends at Folgers…and Green Mountain…and Starbucks.
Even with their help, though, I think I’ll be better qualified to fly a mission to Mars than ever figuring out all of the buttons on the camera. I’m beginning to think that some of them are just there to create the illusion of superiority to other models.
Perhaps it’s premature to feel that way about it, seeing as how I had ten years with my previous camera in which to learn about all of its functions.
Of course, it could also be a sign that it’s time for me to learn how to paint. I’ve heard things about some guy who teaches by video…
Every few months (days) or so I find myself in the middle of some type of minor existential crisis (thought spider web) of sorts. They’re not necessarily serious. It’s just usually a run-of-the-mill random string of thoughts that send me off into some kind of weird tangent.
For instance, one day I was sitting at a stoplight. (I spend a lot of time doing that.) My next thought was, “Why did they choose this color scheme for stoplights?” That thought inevitably snowballed into, “Well, color is just perception anyway, based on the way our eyes and brains process the information in front of us and the way the light reflects and I’m just sitting here obeying a color scheme that was set up by human beings to encourage order. Dogs would see it differently. I mean, I think they would. While I’m here, though, why am I here? I mean, I watched a video a few days ago explaining some laws of physics related to the concept of free will and I wonder how many atoms are in my pinky fingernail and why they chose my pinky in the first place when there are so many other deserving pinky fingernails in the world and why are those people honking at me?”
Occasionally, these spirals lead to some interesting stories that I put down on paper. (Yes, actual paper.) Most of the time, though, they’re just confusing and I know more than a few people who are convinced that I’ll have myself a small stroke trying to count protons and electrons in my pinky fingernail with no scientific equipment.
Author’s Note: I’d like to remind those people that I survived my philosophy class in college–with an A–and I’m just prone to extended thinking spells. I might also point out that the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz was excited at the prospect of getting a brain so that he could think of things he’d never thought before. Thinking is a popular, accessible, sought-after hobby.
Now comes the part where I tell you I’m not exactly sure where I was going with all of this, because the theme here is confusion. Maybe I was just looking for some inspiration. Maybe I was looking for motivation. Maybe I was hoping for some ideas that will send me on another tangent that will help me create more interesting stories. I could also be procrastinating.
I have largely avoided the debate about whether or not the new decade begins on January 1, 2020 or January 1, 2021. At least one teacher I had when I was a kid was adamant that a new decade began on a year ending in 1, so I usually went by her logic. However, unlike many other subjects, I have no strong opinions about this issue, partially owing to the fact that I’m not much of a math surgeon and most of what I say having to do with numbers should probably be reviewed by an outside source.
For the sake of this entry, however, I’m going to say that we are ending the current decade on December 31, 2019, and that we probably don’t have to worry about any Y2K type of fiasco. Moving forward, moving on…thank goodness.
Why do I say that? Well, the last decade has been interesting. Granted, it had its highlights; everyone liked “Uptown Funk” and you can buy a car from a vending machine nowadays if you’re so inclined.
A lot can happen over the course of a decade.
Still, I have to hope that something good will come of the next year and decade. 2020 is an election year, so…yeah, okay. (Skip that one. Let me check my notes.) 2020 is an Olympic year, so I’ll be expecting Simone Biles to bring home at least two dozen gold medals–possibly three. (Wouldn’t want to put too much pressure on her.) Hopefully the ’20s will be prosperous without the ensuing worldwide market collapses and Great Depression that followed the last set of ’20s.
2020 is a census year, so maybe we’ll get an accurate head count and, in turn, figure out what to do about traffic problems.
Nah, maybe not. I should apply the wisdom that the last few decades have taught me and keep my expectations reasonable. Happy New Year, everyone! Let’s give 2019–and the previous decade–a fond farewell.
2020. Who still thinks that 2000 sounds futuristic? And where are the flying cars?!?
Hold that thought.
In any event, 2020 is a census year. I’ve been asking friends what they think the count will be in our fair city this time. My current estimate is “A LOT,” based purely on my observations regarding the infrastructure–specifically, traffic.
Especially during the holidays.
I’m not just referring to road traffic, either. I made the mistake of going shopping on a Saturday and decided that I’m not doing that again unless it’s an emergency, like a sudden household chocolate shortage.
No, the shopping on a Saturday will largely stop, because I was waiting in a checkout line recently when someone decided to place their hands on me to move me out of their way BEFORE offering an “excuse me.”
As I looked around at all the people and all the holiday “cheer,” I decided that it was time for everyone to take a step back, breathe, and look at something nice for a few minutes.
We are BOMBARDED this time of year with a pursuit of perfection in our holiday plans. The perfect party, perfect gifts, perfect everything…when in reality, most of us will have a more Griswoldian experience.
We need to SLOW DOWN for a moment here. (Unless you’re making a right-hand turn, which, for some reason, appears to be incredibly difficult. I suppose that’s a big reason why we haven’t pursued flying cars more vehemently.)
Seriously, though…stop and breathe. Simplify what you can. If it’s worth moving a complete stranger aside in order to create the “perfect” Christmas, trust me, it actually isn’t worth it.