The kids absolutely love a playground and we are lucky enough to have one in our neighborhood. It’s a frequent outing on weekend mornings: plop them in the jogging stroller and head down to the playground a mile from our house. We stay and play for a while and then head back home. Everybody gets outside, everybody gets some exercise, everybody wins.
Except yesterday, when we got there to find that the gate had broken and been zip-tied shut. It’s the kind of gate that takes an ID card to open (the playground is for HOA members only, which 🙄), and it seemed like when the mechanism broke, rather than leave it open and available to everyone, someone decided to shut it completely and prevent ANYONE from getting in. (Sure, we could “just” cut the zip ties, but who carries scissors to the playground?)
I hate this attitude and it’s not the first time I’ve encountered it with our HOA. We’re constantly hearing about how people who don’t even live in our neighborhood want to come use our pool and playground. Allegedly, people try to “jump the fence” on the reg. I wouldn’t be surprised if I heard our HOA president promising to build a wall around the neighborhood soon slash claiming it will be paid for by the less affluent neighborhood to the south.
So anyway, we of course had two very broken-hearted toddlers in our hands who cried the entire walk home, L wailing repeatedly, “ow-SHIIIIDE! ow-SHIIIIDE!” It was little consolation to his soul to be told that, although we were not at the playground, we were still technically outside.
And that is how today, when it started pouring down rain just as we arrived at a public park (not taking chances with our neighborhood playground again), we wound up at the McDonald’s PlayPlace — you can bet we were not going to break those children’s hearts again. You want to slide? You are god damned getting to slide. And mama is buying some warm chocolate chip cookies and a giant Diet Coke.
You know what I hate? Fake neologisms. You know, when someone uses a word they haven’t used before, and they think they have made it up, so to preempt any comments, they say something like “yes, I know that isn’t a word”? Only it really is a word and they are too ignorant to know that and/or to arrogant to look it up in the dictionary? That thing? I hate that.
At work today, I had to create a file under the heading "Visioning." I am now going to look for a pencil I can use to stab out my own eyes.
Do you think it’s significant that my students insist on calling Humbert Humbert "Humpert"?
What is the deal with shrugs, anyway? It has the potential for full-fledged sweaterdom, but it’s as if someone ran out of yarn halfway through. “Oops, it’s a shrug,” they probably said. “I’m sure some fool will buy it.” And the next thing you know, all the girls at the mall are wearing little sweaters that keep their boobs warm while unflatteringly presenting their bellies to the world all “Hey, look at my belly! Also, doesn’t this shrug make me look adorably foreshortened?”
People, it’s not as bad, perhaps, as leggings or the jeans-under-a-skirt phenomenon, but it has got to stop. There’s nothing I hate worse than browsing the clearance rack at Banana Republic and seeing what looks to be a promising sleeve (cable knit, chocolate brown), pulling it out to examine the sweater, and then being cruelly disappointed when I discover that, OOPS, IT’S A SHRUG!
The only real fruit of this phenomenon has been that I have started using the “OOPS” construction when I need to say something obvious: OOPS, MY LUNGS ARE MADE OF CHOWDER, for example. This is especially fun when using an Austrian accent. (As in, OOPS, CALIFORNIA IS RUNNING OUT OF ELECTRICITY.)
Try it yourself and see. Had an unpleasant experience at the movies this weekend? I have just the exclamation for you: OOPS, M. NIGHT SHYAMALAN IS A SELF-AGGRANDIZING BOOB. Got a midnight craving for a burrito the size of your leg? OOPS, I JUST ATE FOUR THOUSAND CALORIES.
This might just be the sort of thing that only I (and select, elite others) find amusing, in which case, I apologize for wasting your time. OOPS, I WROTE ABOUT A PERSONAL JOKE ON THE INTERNET AND IT WASN’T VERY FUNNY.
Ray Smuckles likes neologisms, too. Pachinko!
pachinko (pa-CHIN-ko): n. vagina, esp. slang
Don’t blame me for this one. OK, then, fine, blame me. It’s just that some certain people seem, like, uncomfortable with discussing women’s special areas in public. This term makes it all the more humorous and all the less frightening. Case in point:
Dude: Blah blah blah politics the pope bitches and hos I hate Ani blah blah blah…
You: Oh yeah?
Dude: Yeah, you heard me.
Dude: [Stunned, embarrassed silence. Eyebrows.]
You: [Ha! Ha! I win! I win! IwinIwinIwinIwin!!!!] Yes, pachinko.
Dude: I concede; everything you say is absolutely correct [please stop saying that word!].
For that, pachinko, I thank you. Just try it ladies; you’ll be glad.
UPDATE: One of my friends told me the reason he hated this word was the possibility that he might be in an intimate situation and accidentally say [ed. note: or think] the word "pachinko." If this ever happens, I shall consider it one of my greatest contributions to American society, and I shall demand from him some sort of, um, remuneration.
Dear Loyal Readers,
Please accept my heartfelt apologies. I realize you come to this weblog expecting to find scholarly treatises on the subject of Zemblan Grammar. The title promises you that, and I should do nothing less than provide it. Of late, however, I have been distracted by election-year politics and bar-bathroom obscenities, which have (most notably) converged in such posts as the below. Commenting on Florida’s "chronic wangularity," while it may elicit the type of half hearted giggle one hears when an SNL skit runs too long, is a far cry from the normally acerbic wit you have come to expect from me. I should have focused my energies on the morphology of the term wangularity itself, [wang (slang word for penis) + ~ular (adjective ending) + ~ity(noun ending) = wangularity: the quality of being penis-like] or its etymology, which I confess remains a mystery. A riddle wrapped in an enigma, shrouded in a
profila Whoops! There I was, about to get distracted again.
I promise I will do better. I shall not rest until I discover the source of the word wang as slang for penis. Or, for that matter, the etymology of such terms as tweeter, chubby, unit, member, Johnson (or its Lebowski-dubbed-in-German/Nihilist equivalent, Johannes), wick, or old chap. I have been remiss, friends, but worry no more: I am back.
Yours Most Cordially,
That’s why I shall insist on introducing you to the newest perversion of German compound words to cross my mind. Behold! Freudenfreude! You guessed it, darling, it means taking joy from the joys of others. Isn’t that nice?
In related news, a German teaching colleague of mine mentioned the following problem her students encountered working with compounds and the genitive. How to do it correctly: der Autoverk?ufer = der Verk?ufer des Autos (the carseller = the seller of the car). How to screw it up: das Hundeklo = das Eklo des Hundes. Now, an Eklo doesn’t exist. A Klo, on the other hand, is a toilet. Perhaps, we thought, an Eklo is a digital waste repository?
Eklo : Klo :: Email : Mail ?
Handy as I must believe that is, why would a dog need one? My amusement at the above can be chalked up to Best?rzungsfreude, or taking joy from the consternation of others.