As culture develops and technology rapidly unfolds, our language must keep up with global development. Without a properly delineated nomenclature within a given field of growth, verbal anarchy ensues and any advancement finds itself mired in a veritable Babel of terms. Universality is key in communication, and if our language does not keep pace with growth, we are quickly outpaced by the small minority that can speak its terms and parse its jargon.
I have NO idea what that opening paragraph meant. But I can't think of any words in there I want to get rid of.
But here's one, though it sticks in my craw that I even have to elevate to the status of 'word' so that I can give a size 12 boot out of the lexicon. The word is... not a word. It's an idiotic jumble of letters and numbers that mean something to pimply faced, socially retarded 13 year-olds who should be out exercising. It also applies to pimply-faced, socially retarded, overweight 35 year-olds who seriously need to get out and exercise. And find a girlfriend. And get a job. And bathe. Seriously. Please bathe.
That .... ahem... word is, as you may have already guessed, has officially been accepted by Merriam-Webster (Fie! For shame!) as a 'word' for 2007: W00t, (or 'w00t', or 'W007', or
'Senator John Edwards').
A close scrutiny of its etymology quickly determines its pedigree. It is neither Latin, nor Greek, nor even Hungarian (which is making a fashionable come-back these days). Rather, its roots come for the international community of online gamers who want to shove things in the face of others.
Remember those days in high school gym, when the class bully, after humiliating you out on the football field, would further humiliate you by removing his sweaty jock strap and slip it over your head when you weren't looking? Yeah. Neither do I. But still, someone must have suffered from it, and this exclamation of 'w007' is the stinky jock-strap of the triumphant nerd. It's an 'In your face, beeeyatch', just without all the typing.
So where does it come from? Some give it a Scottish heritage, which I personally find compelling, but highly dumb. Others attribute it to the infamous (and Satanic. But that's only because I could never understand it) Dungeons and Dragons game, where a pipsqueak would often pipe up 'Wow! Loot!' Whenever he rolled a 24 sided die and it came up odd, red, and on number 22, thus earning him lots of money because he placed money on it. I think. I may be mixing games up here. But still.
Whatever its peculiar provenance, there's only one thing I can say: I will risk never becoming an 'l337' (that's an 'elite', for all of those who have actually grown up and done something useful with your lives. I get it, and maybe you do too, but it's dumb) and ever use 'w007' in a sentence.
Now it's time to play WoW ( That's 'World of Warcraft').
I'll take a bath later.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
Love Abounds
Christmas Eve is here.
The nieces are asleep, but I am miles away from them. We have had airplane rides and opened presents (my niece gave me coasters: she must have been talking to my wife). We bid them farewell, and drove 20 miles to the east to visit with friends.
These friends are family: Hodgiemoto and his very subdued wife Bunny, Heloo-Ha-Davie and his wife Darrr. Their daughters sleep while we wrap presents for them, telling jokes that border on raunchy (We're 5 Christians and one renegade Catholic) and relive old memories.
I love them all.
I love them.
And my wife fits in with them. And I love her.
And if I'm really prescient, I remember that this is what the season is all about.
And the Christmas season is the culmination of every blessing I have ever been given.
The nieces are asleep, but I am miles away from them. We have had airplane rides and opened presents (my niece gave me coasters: she must have been talking to my wife). We bid them farewell, and drove 20 miles to the east to visit with friends.
These friends are family: Hodgiemoto and his very subdued wife Bunny, Heloo-Ha-Davie and his wife Darrr. Their daughters sleep while we wrap presents for them, telling jokes that border on raunchy (We're 5 Christians and one renegade Catholic) and relive old memories.
I love them all.
I love them.
And my wife fits in with them. And I love her.
And if I'm really prescient, I remember that this is what the season is all about.
And the Christmas season is the culmination of every blessing I have ever been given.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
All Souped-Up and Nowhere to Go
I am writing this on a new computer.
Like this is news.
But the truth is, my old was like an old relative wasting away in a convalescent home, cranky, creaky, slow beyond words and not recognizing visiting nephews. Each time I called up a new program, it sounded like an octogenarian getting up out of a recliner. And it took just as long, too.
So I went to Costco. You know, because they're just known for computers.
Actually, they're known for their return policy, which is lucky in my case.
I returned home with my big, hernia inducing box, lugged it in to the den, and immediately called my friend 'Dooga' (so named because this is what he and his former fiancee called each other at one time, to eveyone's mutual nausea, so now I get to tease him), to crow about my latest purchase.
Dooga owns a computer store.
Crowing about an out of the box, factory made computer from one of the mega-corporations (and coming with Windows Vista, no less) is a dumb thing to do to a guy who owns a computer store.
Very gently, Dooga asked me about my specs on the computer. The video card. What did it come with? He was so tactful, so gentle, that he was trashing my new purchase to utter pieces with the gentleness of petting a cat. By the time we were done, I looked only in disgust at my new purchase, and immediately commissioned him to build a custom made one for me instead. Within a week, it was completed, with him narrating each move every step of the way. All this, during his busy season (Christmas), too.
In the end, I had a mega-computer: it's like having ridden a moped once in your life, and then jumping on a Harley because you're 'familiar with motorcycles'. The truth is, I haven't the faintest idea what this thing can do.
I can't WAIT to find out.
Like this is news.
But the truth is, my old was like an old relative wasting away in a convalescent home, cranky, creaky, slow beyond words and not recognizing visiting nephews. Each time I called up a new program, it sounded like an octogenarian getting up out of a recliner. And it took just as long, too.
So I went to Costco. You know, because they're just known for computers.
Actually, they're known for their return policy, which is lucky in my case.
I returned home with my big, hernia inducing box, lugged it in to the den, and immediately called my friend 'Dooga' (so named because this is what he and his former fiancee called each other at one time, to eveyone's mutual nausea, so now I get to tease him), to crow about my latest purchase.
Dooga owns a computer store.
Crowing about an out of the box, factory made computer from one of the mega-corporations (and coming with Windows Vista, no less) is a dumb thing to do to a guy who owns a computer store.
Very gently, Dooga asked me about my specs on the computer. The video card. What did it come with? He was so tactful, so gentle, that he was trashing my new purchase to utter pieces with the gentleness of petting a cat. By the time we were done, I looked only in disgust at my new purchase, and immediately commissioned him to build a custom made one for me instead. Within a week, it was completed, with him narrating each move every step of the way. All this, during his busy season (Christmas), too.
In the end, I had a mega-computer: it's like having ridden a moped once in your life, and then jumping on a Harley because you're 'familiar with motorcycles'. The truth is, I haven't the faintest idea what this thing can do.
I can't WAIT to find out.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Signs, signs... everywhere the signs
I haven't been posting my usual suggestions of words that ought to be deleted, basically because I am lazy, and also because none have offended me that badly as of late ( though 'ocelot' came damned close once).
At 7:30 this morning (and yes, this was on a Saturday) I awoke to make the long drive to Vancouver, BC. The reason for this quarterly trek is, believe it or not, because my prescriptions actually cost LESS in Canada than they do in the United States even WITH insurance (note: expect a tirade on this in the coming days). As I was nearly out of my prescription, and will be in California for the most of next week celebrating Christmas, today was really the only viable day to run this errand.
As per my custom, after the three hour drive to Vancouver (four, if you happen to have a very nasty border crossing), I am not all that eager to get back on the road, and always visit instead a small bookstore right off of Granville. It's a combination used bookstore and coffee shop, and it's always a treat to wander down the aisles looking for good books while the rich smell of coffee wafts teasingly though the halls. It's such a cozy experience- two of my favorite things- and I swear you can pull a book off the shelf, stick your nose in it and breathe deeply, and you will inhale the aroma of dark, thick coffee. Heaven.
While I was slowly walking down each aisle, craning my head sideways to read the titles or find the names of authors, I saw a sign on one of the bookshelves that I read without thinking, and simply moved on. It wasn't until I was back on the road, thinking my usual thoughts of nothing that my mind chanced upon that sign, and re-visited what it said.
And then, I laughed out loud.
There is humor where we least expect it: cleverness that so often goes unnoticed because we are overwhelmed with signs, billboards, placards and symbols. We glance at them once and know immediately what the content is based on its first few words, and then obey accordingly.
We have even turned ourselves into walking billboards, with t-shirts emblazoned with the name of the designer across them (and usually going for $30 bucks a pop- $5 for the everyday cotton t-shirt you can get at Wal-Mart, $25 for the right to advertise the name of designer so that people will see it and the designer can sell more).
So it's no surprise that I saw this particular sign in the bookstore and summarily dismissed it: it was in regards to children left unattended, after all. Having no children of my own (at this point) and certainly none that I had hijacked on my way to Canada just to keep my company, I saw immediately the sign meant nothing to me, and continued down the aisles.
It was only later, when I thought about it, that the clever creativity of it hit me. It read: 'All children left unattended will be given an espresso and a puppy.'
Nothing further.
It was brilliant.
I DON'T want to open my eyes to all that is thrust in my face in this life. We're bombarded with thousands of pieces of information daily that begs to be looked at more deeply, acted upon. No wonder we shut our eyes to it. So I won't be checking every billboard for cleverness, or reading every T-shirt to see whether the sentiments are funny, cute or worth a laugh. Very few, if any, are. Thrust it in my face, and it will be thrust back at you.
But the flip side to this parabolic shield over my head, this inoculating myself against the advertisements of this world means that I run the risk of missing little gems like the one in the bookstore. But someone with a sense of humor like mine tacked that sign up, and I salute them. Thank you for the laugh on a rainy afternoon. Thanks for coming up with things like that, even if the rest of the world is too busy to 'get it'.
At 7:30 this morning (and yes, this was on a Saturday) I awoke to make the long drive to Vancouver, BC. The reason for this quarterly trek is, believe it or not, because my prescriptions actually cost LESS in Canada than they do in the United States even WITH insurance (note: expect a tirade on this in the coming days). As I was nearly out of my prescription, and will be in California for the most of next week celebrating Christmas, today was really the only viable day to run this errand.
As per my custom, after the three hour drive to Vancouver (four, if you happen to have a very nasty border crossing), I am not all that eager to get back on the road, and always visit instead a small bookstore right off of Granville. It's a combination used bookstore and coffee shop, and it's always a treat to wander down the aisles looking for good books while the rich smell of coffee wafts teasingly though the halls. It's such a cozy experience- two of my favorite things- and I swear you can pull a book off the shelf, stick your nose in it and breathe deeply, and you will inhale the aroma of dark, thick coffee. Heaven.
While I was slowly walking down each aisle, craning my head sideways to read the titles or find the names of authors, I saw a sign on one of the bookshelves that I read without thinking, and simply moved on. It wasn't until I was back on the road, thinking my usual thoughts of nothing that my mind chanced upon that sign, and re-visited what it said.
And then, I laughed out loud.
There is humor where we least expect it: cleverness that so often goes unnoticed because we are overwhelmed with signs, billboards, placards and symbols. We glance at them once and know immediately what the content is based on its first few words, and then obey accordingly.
We have even turned ourselves into walking billboards, with t-shirts emblazoned with the name of the designer across them (and usually going for $30 bucks a pop- $5 for the everyday cotton t-shirt you can get at Wal-Mart, $25 for the right to advertise the name of designer so that people will see it and the designer can sell more).
So it's no surprise that I saw this particular sign in the bookstore and summarily dismissed it: it was in regards to children left unattended, after all. Having no children of my own (at this point) and certainly none that I had hijacked on my way to Canada just to keep my company, I saw immediately the sign meant nothing to me, and continued down the aisles.
It was only later, when I thought about it, that the clever creativity of it hit me. It read: 'All children left unattended will be given an espresso and a puppy.'
Nothing further.
It was brilliant.
I DON'T want to open my eyes to all that is thrust in my face in this life. We're bombarded with thousands of pieces of information daily that begs to be looked at more deeply, acted upon. No wonder we shut our eyes to it. So I won't be checking every billboard for cleverness, or reading every T-shirt to see whether the sentiments are funny, cute or worth a laugh. Very few, if any, are. Thrust it in my face, and it will be thrust back at you.
But the flip side to this parabolic shield over my head, this inoculating myself against the advertisements of this world means that I run the risk of missing little gems like the one in the bookstore. But someone with a sense of humor like mine tacked that sign up, and I salute them. Thank you for the laugh on a rainy afternoon. Thanks for coming up with things like that, even if the rest of the world is too busy to 'get it'.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
The Great Purgation: Word # 9
# 9. A humble reader recently suggested a word that could safely be romoved from our lexicon, without any sort of deletorious effects on our vocabularly as a whole. While I agreed in theory of its necessity of dying a horrible, gruesome death, I wasn't sure whether its typology would render it unfit for this exercise.
After all, I want to tackle the words that exist, not those that are simple slang.
Oh, Webster, how great is thy betrayal.
As of 1999, the word 'bling-bling' is now an acceptable noun in the English language.
You can see why I want to destroy Webester, word by bloody word.
My rule of thumb on getting rid of words is quite simple: if the word is used by at least 75% of the population, it should stay. After all we're using it. To do otherwise would be like canceling your cable subscription right in the middle of football season. In other words, unthinkable. That's why I felt safe in choosing 'expunge': the only ones who use it nowadays are judges and lawyers, the latter not being quite human.
So, based on reader recommendation I present to you as the next word under the guillotine: 'bling'.
Most of you may know it only when added by it's second syllable, which also happens to be 'bling', but I have it on good authority that you can either use it as a hyphenated double, or a rather retarded single. Its definition is as follows:
'Flashy jewlery worn especially as an indication of wealth; broadly: expensive and ostentations possessions.'
Remember my rule: is this a word used by 75% of the population? Let's view some examples:
'John, would you be a dear and unlock the safe in our spacious 500 square foot walk in closet? I need to retrieve some bling-bling for tonight's fundraiser at the Met.'
- I'm not feeling that one.
Let's try another:
'Goldarn it, Mary, why can't you wear just a simple bonnet to church like every other woman, instead of all that bling-bling?'
- Quickly losing ground.
Perhaps the only environment where one could (and indeed would even think of) use it and get away with it is within the rather small (but elite) groups of pimps and professional athletes. The former have a rather limited life expectancy, while the latter grow out of it once they reach the age of 30.
Granted, many people wear gaudy and ostentatious articles designed to project wealth (Rolex, I'm talking to you), but that doesn't mean they refer to it as bling-bling: instead they'll just find ways to insert the phrase 'I make more money than God' into their conversations: usually apropos of nothing.
Clearly, they haven't seen the bling-ing crown God wears on His head.
________, or ______-_______, you've been ____________. You will not be missed.
After all, I want to tackle the words that exist, not those that are simple slang.
Oh, Webster, how great is thy betrayal.
As of 1999, the word 'bling-bling' is now an acceptable noun in the English language.
You can see why I want to destroy Webester, word by bloody word.
My rule of thumb on getting rid of words is quite simple: if the word is used by at least 75% of the population, it should stay. After all we're using it. To do otherwise would be like canceling your cable subscription right in the middle of football season. In other words, unthinkable. That's why I felt safe in choosing 'expunge': the only ones who use it nowadays are judges and lawyers, the latter not being quite human.
So, based on reader recommendation I present to you as the next word under the guillotine: 'bling'.
Most of you may know it only when added by it's second syllable, which also happens to be 'bling', but I have it on good authority that you can either use it as a hyphenated double, or a rather retarded single. Its definition is as follows:
'Flashy jewlery worn especially as an indication of wealth; broadly: expensive and ostentations possessions.'
Remember my rule: is this a word used by 75% of the population? Let's view some examples:
'John, would you be a dear and unlock the safe in our spacious 500 square foot walk in closet? I need to retrieve some bling-bling for tonight's fundraiser at the Met.'
- I'm not feeling that one.
Let's try another:
'Goldarn it, Mary, why can't you wear just a simple bonnet to church like every other woman, instead of all that bling-bling?'
- Quickly losing ground.
Perhaps the only environment where one could (and indeed would even think of) use it and get away with it is within the rather small (but elite) groups of pimps and professional athletes. The former have a rather limited life expectancy, while the latter grow out of it once they reach the age of 30.
Granted, many people wear gaudy and ostentatious articles designed to project wealth (Rolex, I'm talking to you), but that doesn't mean they refer to it as bling-bling: instead they'll just find ways to insert the phrase 'I make more money than God' into their conversations: usually apropos of nothing.
Clearly, they haven't seen the bling-ing crown God wears on His head.
________, or ______-_______, you've been ____________. You will not be missed.
Friday, December 7, 2007
A Top 10 List of Words That Should Be Expunged From Our Vocabulary
Anyone who has read the seminal authoritarian book '1984', may remember the particularly intriguing scene where the main character, Winston Smith, steps placidly onto an elevator as he makes his way towards his state-sponsored job. As he stands, he is enjoined in a conversation with a 'brother', whose occupation is that of removing words from the dictionary- and thus from language altogether. He boasts of that year's significant reduction of words, and waxes dreamily about the day when there will be no need for words at all.
I find this chilling: this work was allegedly started in 1984, and yet my Oxford English Dictionary is still as heavy as it was back then. In my opinion, they're going way too slow. I earnestly look forward to the day when we can only communicate through mime, intrepretive dance, or semaphore. It will be like a big, unending game of charades, with the only difference being that you can't shout out the answer.
In any case, as I feel the process is taking too long, I am humbly submitting the first of MY TOP TEN WORDS THAT SHOULD BE EXPUNGED FROM OUR VOCABULARY. Here is my first selection:
Number 10- EXPUNGE: (transitive verb)
1 : to strike out, obliterate, or mark for deletion 2 : to efface completely : destroy 3 : to eliminate (as a memory) from one's consciousness
Etymology: who cares?
Yeah, this one's gotta go. I'm totally against it. If nothing else, it's just redundant, not to mention archaic (it has Latin roots: do I have to point this out? DEAD LANGUAGE, FOLKS!). Besides, there are too many synonyms to count. Though I'm going to try. Here goes:
- Dump
- Toss out
- Ditch
- Kiss off
- Remove
- Purge (for all the bulimics out there)
- Jettison
- Coagulate (HA! Fooled you! That's not a real synonym)
- Drop that 'ho
- Expel
- Destroy all traces of (like blood stains on the hood of your car from an unwary pedestrian...
but that's just an example. It doesn't mean anything. Really. I found him that way)
- Evict
- Annihilate (Ooh... maybe this one should go, to. WAY too hard to spell)
- Have a one mile radius restraining order placed against you by the object of your affections
- Delete
- Send packing
- 'Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes'
- Later, Dude
See what I mean? WAY too many options. 'EXPUNGED', you've been targetted.
If you have a word that you'd like to see '___________' from our language, or if you think of other synonyms to the word that no-longer-will-be-used, please leave them in my comment box.
I find this chilling: this work was allegedly started in 1984, and yet my Oxford English Dictionary is still as heavy as it was back then. In my opinion, they're going way too slow. I earnestly look forward to the day when we can only communicate through mime, intrepretive dance, or semaphore. It will be like a big, unending game of charades, with the only difference being that you can't shout out the answer.
In any case, as I feel the process is taking too long, I am humbly submitting the first of MY TOP TEN WORDS THAT SHOULD BE EXPUNGED FROM OUR VOCABULARY. Here is my first selection:
Number 10- EXPUNGE: (transitive verb)
1 : to strike out, obliterate, or mark for deletion 2 : to efface completely : destroy 3 : to eliminate (as a memory) from one's consciousness
Etymology: who cares?
Yeah, this one's gotta go. I'm totally against it. If nothing else, it's just redundant, not to mention archaic (it has Latin roots: do I have to point this out? DEAD LANGUAGE, FOLKS!). Besides, there are too many synonyms to count. Though I'm going to try. Here goes:
- Dump
- Toss out
- Ditch
- Kiss off
- Remove
- Purge (for all the bulimics out there)
- Jettison
- Coagulate (HA! Fooled you! That's not a real synonym)
- Drop that 'ho
- Expel
- Destroy all traces of (like blood stains on the hood of your car from an unwary pedestrian...
but that's just an example. It doesn't mean anything. Really. I found him that way)
- Evict
- Annihilate (Ooh... maybe this one should go, to. WAY too hard to spell)
- Have a one mile radius restraining order placed against you by the object of your affections
- Delete
- Send packing
- 'Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes'
- Later, Dude
See what I mean? WAY too many options. 'EXPUNGED', you've been targetted.
If you have a word that you'd like to see '___________' from our language, or if you think of other synonyms to the word that no-longer-will-be-used, please leave them in my comment box.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Is my cell phone hot? Or not?
Last night, after a particularly intense workout at the gym (this means I was on a Stairmaster at .5 setting for 1/2 hour while I watched 'Jeopardy'), Salome and I returned home with our take-out dinner. As is customary in all American families, we eschewed dining at the table and conversing in favor of sitting in front of the TV.
Salome is a wonderful woman with an intellect and nimbleness of mind that astonishes me sometimes. The woman is just smart. But if there is anything plebian about her, it's her choice in television programs. I say this just in reference to the fact that our television dinner fare was American Runway, or Project Fashion Model Breakdown Designers, or something of that nature. Anyway, it had to do with fashion. That much I am certain of.
Throughout the 15 minutes I was watching the aforementioned show, every so often a little blurbed footer would appear saying something inane like 'Log on to www.projectfashionrunwaymeltdown.com to watch Alejandro's melt down while knitting a scarf!' To me and most guys, this sort of thing is anathema: everyone knows that area on the screen is reserved for SPORTS SCORES ONLY.
Regardless, one blurb asked the question: 'Is your cell phone hot... or not?'
Let me say here that I am one who is always behind the fashion curve. New trends look unbearingly stupid to me for a couple of years, until they're firmly entrenched in our culture, at which point I give way to them just as the trend is falling off. My timing is always bad on this.
So I found this question, posed by the fashion-nazis, to be almost existential: was I in? Am I out? When I pull out my cell phone to answer a call, are there admiring looks at my little V-cast, or is that horribly passe?
And if it is, then what about the rest of me? Where have I broken down? What have I missed? Is it a case of having the right button down, flaired cuffed shirt but the wrong pair of stonewashed, weather beaten, frayed jeans that are available at Nordstroms for only $125? And if these are a mis-match, then what does that say about me overall? That I'm a poseur, a fraud, a 'wannabe' from back in the high school days?
And if I am fashionably inept, then can I be taken seriously by the rest of the world? What hope can I possibly give in this season of giving if I can't even get my cell phone to be stylish? What good am I, and if a man falls in the forest and he's not wearing Eddie Bauer, does he make a noise?
As I'm pondering these things today, my cell phone rings: it's our body shop, telling me our car will be ready for pick-up tomorrow. The tone is clear, I can hear him, he can hear me, and as I flip the phone shut I shrug my shoulders and say to myself: 'Hot? Not? Whatever: the damn thing works.'
I think that's good enough for me.
Salome is a wonderful woman with an intellect and nimbleness of mind that astonishes me sometimes. The woman is just smart. But if there is anything plebian about her, it's her choice in television programs. I say this just in reference to the fact that our television dinner fare was American Runway, or Project Fashion Model Breakdown Designers, or something of that nature. Anyway, it had to do with fashion. That much I am certain of.
Throughout the 15 minutes I was watching the aforementioned show, every so often a little blurbed footer would appear saying something inane like 'Log on to www.projectfashionrunwaymeltdown.com to watch Alejandro's melt down while knitting a scarf!' To me and most guys, this sort of thing is anathema: everyone knows that area on the screen is reserved for SPORTS SCORES ONLY.
Regardless, one blurb asked the question: 'Is your cell phone hot... or not?'
Let me say here that I am one who is always behind the fashion curve. New trends look unbearingly stupid to me for a couple of years, until they're firmly entrenched in our culture, at which point I give way to them just as the trend is falling off. My timing is always bad on this.
So I found this question, posed by the fashion-nazis, to be almost existential: was I in? Am I out? When I pull out my cell phone to answer a call, are there admiring looks at my little V-cast, or is that horribly passe?
And if it is, then what about the rest of me? Where have I broken down? What have I missed? Is it a case of having the right button down, flaired cuffed shirt but the wrong pair of stonewashed, weather beaten, frayed jeans that are available at Nordstroms for only $125? And if these are a mis-match, then what does that say about me overall? That I'm a poseur, a fraud, a 'wannabe' from back in the high school days?
And if I am fashionably inept, then can I be taken seriously by the rest of the world? What hope can I possibly give in this season of giving if I can't even get my cell phone to be stylish? What good am I, and if a man falls in the forest and he's not wearing Eddie Bauer, does he make a noise?
As I'm pondering these things today, my cell phone rings: it's our body shop, telling me our car will be ready for pick-up tomorrow. The tone is clear, I can hear him, he can hear me, and as I flip the phone shut I shrug my shoulders and say to myself: 'Hot? Not? Whatever: the damn thing works.'
I think that's good enough for me.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Love Leaves a Door
I've been away for a bit.
Both mentally (which is most often the case), and physically.
It occurred to me, however, that I left this blog on a rather negative note: my prose (and rather prosaic) diatribe to all the people whom I wanted to issue 'moron-awards' to.
This is not right. I will probably do it again (like to all you Seattle drivers in the snow... yeah, you know who you are). But that doesn't mean it's right.
This is a little life lesson that most of you are going to roll your eyes at (which means you risk being written up in my 'moron awards'), but it's something I've been thinking about prior to my departure to St. Louis, and exploring what it means in my life, marriage, relationship with God, friendships... You know, real light stuff.
And the 'cat'-alyst for it is Cleo.
Many of you know the story of the abandoned cat that we have been trying to take in and get acclimated to household life (with a neurotic male cat who would be gay if he wasn't neutered, and a prickly female cat who lists 'bitching' under the category for 'hobbies' on job applications, so are we really surprised that Cleo isn't acclimating quite that fast?), which is... going slowly.
At one time, after her eye had swelled up to the size of golf ball from conjunctivitis, we rushed her to the vet to have her treated. For her protection, we sealed the cat door to the outside so she could not enter or leave of her own volition, as she had been accustomed to. The mis-guided hope was that she'd see 'family life' and 'indoors' as fun, and want to stay.
She did not want to stay.
She scratched at the bedroom door that she had adopted as her own. She would go to the cat door when we were around and try to lift it (rather successfully, too: she's a bright cat. Not bright enough, though: I had slid another cat door on the outside in case she proved to be so enterprising. Score one for humans with opposable thumbs!), paw at it, mewl disconsolately. All to no avail: we stood firm.
It was then that she turned inward, no longer chirruping delightedly whenever we entered her room. No joy in the soft food we give the cats every night. She'd eat it, half-heartedly, and then jump back up on the bed, lonely, withdrawn, no doubt wishing that she had never taken us up on our offer of kindness.
Finally, I'd had enough. This loss of spirit was just difficult to watch. So, even though it might prolong her sickness, even though she might walk away and disappear into the night, I opened the cat door.
And out she went.
And now, as the weather has turned cold, and her eyes are finally healing, we see much more of Cleo. She's always ready for the soft food, always comfortably tucked onto her small pillow in the guest bedroom, always chirruping delightfully when you walk in the door. She's back, more of a presence than ever.
She just needed to know- that back door was open.
I think love, by it's nature, requires a door.
Not so that one can leave forever (though in some cases that might be the best thing, though I don't mean 'wife', Salome, so don't get any ideas), but so that one can retreat to a spot of safety and security: to the familiar and the self-defining, so that they can return- and in that return be more loving than ever.
I need to give people that freedom: to be able to say 'I love you. Go. I will wait for your return. Find what you need, give to yourself what you require. I'll still be here. The bed will still be warm, my arms will still be open.'
But before you go, pay back that twenty you owe me.
Both mentally (which is most often the case), and physically.
It occurred to me, however, that I left this blog on a rather negative note: my prose (and rather prosaic) diatribe to all the people whom I wanted to issue 'moron-awards' to.
This is not right. I will probably do it again (like to all you Seattle drivers in the snow... yeah, you know who you are). But that doesn't mean it's right.
This is a little life lesson that most of you are going to roll your eyes at (which means you risk being written up in my 'moron awards'), but it's something I've been thinking about prior to my departure to St. Louis, and exploring what it means in my life, marriage, relationship with God, friendships... You know, real light stuff.
And the 'cat'-alyst for it is Cleo.
Many of you know the story of the abandoned cat that we have been trying to take in and get acclimated to household life (with a neurotic male cat who would be gay if he wasn't neutered, and a prickly female cat who lists 'bitching' under the category for 'hobbies' on job applications, so are we really surprised that Cleo isn't acclimating quite that fast?), which is... going slowly.
At one time, after her eye had swelled up to the size of golf ball from conjunctivitis, we rushed her to the vet to have her treated. For her protection, we sealed the cat door to the outside so she could not enter or leave of her own volition, as she had been accustomed to. The mis-guided hope was that she'd see 'family life' and 'indoors' as fun, and want to stay.
She did not want to stay.
She scratched at the bedroom door that she had adopted as her own. She would go to the cat door when we were around and try to lift it (rather successfully, too: she's a bright cat. Not bright enough, though: I had slid another cat door on the outside in case she proved to be so enterprising. Score one for humans with opposable thumbs!), paw at it, mewl disconsolately. All to no avail: we stood firm.
It was then that she turned inward, no longer chirruping delightedly whenever we entered her room. No joy in the soft food we give the cats every night. She'd eat it, half-heartedly, and then jump back up on the bed, lonely, withdrawn, no doubt wishing that she had never taken us up on our offer of kindness.
Finally, I'd had enough. This loss of spirit was just difficult to watch. So, even though it might prolong her sickness, even though she might walk away and disappear into the night, I opened the cat door.
And out she went.
And now, as the weather has turned cold, and her eyes are finally healing, we see much more of Cleo. She's always ready for the soft food, always comfortably tucked onto her small pillow in the guest bedroom, always chirruping delightfully when you walk in the door. She's back, more of a presence than ever.
She just needed to know- that back door was open.
I think love, by it's nature, requires a door.
Not so that one can leave forever (though in some cases that might be the best thing, though I don't mean 'wife', Salome, so don't get any ideas), but so that one can retreat to a spot of safety and security: to the familiar and the self-defining, so that they can return- and in that return be more loving than ever.
I need to give people that freedom: to be able to say 'I love you. Go. I will wait for your return. Find what you need, give to yourself what you require. I'll still be here. The bed will still be warm, my arms will still be open.'
But before you go, pay back that twenty you owe me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
