Category Archives: etc.

Let’s Talk Boogers

etc., health, humor, ,

That’s what my writing friend Denise and I were doing the other day. She had seen a “hillbilly” truck with a bumper sticker on it that referenced boogers. She marveled at the grammar and punctuation, which was all correct, considering that the truck owner was clearly a hillbilly who used the term “booger.”

“What do non-hillbillies call boogers?” I asked. I thought it was a valid question. Offhand, I couldn’t think of any synonyms.

Denise admitted that I had a point.

“Snot,” someone else suggested.

“Doesn’t work for me. Snot is more liquid-ish. Boogers are a bit more solid-ish.” We left it at that.

(There is one bodily substance that can appear as any of the three common states of matter—gaseous, fluid, and solid. (We’re not going to discuss plasma or non-Newtonian fluids or other such foolishness here. If there are bodily substances like that, I don’t know about them and don’t want to.) I leave the identification of the aforementioned bodily substance as an exercise for the student. But I digress.)

Another encounter with the word “booger” occurred when I was wanting to know what the little crusty bits that accumulate at the corners of your eyes are called. Most of my friends called them “eye boogers.” (Even my eye doctor did.) But I refused to get on board with that. I had been calling them “eye crunchies,” but, while it usually got the meaning across, it seemed too casual.

Thanks to Mr. Google, I found that the technical term is “gound,” though the little buggers are also known as “dried rheum.” Neither of those is useful for general conversation. (I can just picture myself remarking, “I had a lot of gound when I woke up this morning.” The response, of course, would be “Huh?” and probably a sad headshake. But I digress again.) I guess I have to stick with “eye crunchies.”

Speaking of boogers, one of my odder friends wrote a song called “Rhinotillexomania.” This is Latin, from the words for “nose,” “pick,” and “obsession.” You see where this is going. It was a sprightly little ditty that became a sing-along. (It contained the memorable line, “When it comes to filthy habits of the solitary sort/Rhinotillexomania is my second favorite sport.” But I digress some more.)

I was sorely tempted to call in sick to work one day and say that I was suffering from rhinotillexomania, but I worked in an office of intellectuals, most of whom had at least a smattering of Latin, so that was a no-go.

Speaking of boogers and illness, my husband recently alerted me to a study that says rhinotillexomania can be a contributing factor to Alzheimer’s disease. The theory is that you introduce bacteria and other unfriendlies into your nose that make their way to the brain and cause inflammation. It’s just a theory at this point. (There haven’t been any human studies yet. I imagine it would be hard to recruit test subjects who admit to obsessive nose-picking.)

Did I ever think I would be writing a blog post about boogers and nose-picking? I can’t say that I have. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have ruled it out. (Well, it’s evident that I didn’t.)

Name That Tune

etc., humor, music, , , , ,

No one complains about Musak (aka elevator music) anymore. That’s because there is not, strictly speaking, any more Musak. Nowadays, elevators, stores, bars, and restaurants get their background music from a variety of services, which allow them to choose a specific type of music—smooth jazz, for example. Many locales choose oldies, which to me doesn’t mean the 2000s.

Recently, my husband and I went to a chain restaurant for lunch. We were there early, which means it wasn’t noisy yet, so we could actually hear the ambient music. When we walked in, we immediately heard Clapton’s “Lay Down, Sally,” and took this as a good omen for agreeable music.

Indeed it was. While we were there we heard some Whitney Houston (the early, pre-drug years), Sinatra singing “My Way,” and a bit of Fleetwood Mac, all of which were just fine. Then a song came on that puzzled us at first—Coolio’s “Gangster’s Paradise.” Or maybe it was “Gangsta’s Paradise.” At any rate, I eventually recognized the song, though Dan didn’t. I told him it was by Coolio. (“Kool and the Gang?” he said. That’s how stuck in the past he is. But I digress.)

Even more puzzling was an instrumental piece that came through the speakers. There were rhythmic trumpets and drums. At last I recognized it. “That’s the Imperial March. From Star Wars.”

“No,” Dan exclaimed. “It can’t be.” But it was. And the longer it played, the easier it was to recognize. It couldn’t have been any more recognizable unless it was the theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark. (Actually, that’s what I wanted for our wedding recessional. After all, we were embarking on an adventure, though it has seldom involved snakes. (Except for the time we were driving through Arizona and thought we saw a shed snakeskin on the side of the road. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a weathered piece of duct tape.) At any rate, the church organist balked and substituted the Love Theme from the movie Superman, which he probably figured was more appropriate but still a movie theme, though one that had no personal meaning for us. He was probably weirded out enough that I insisted on “Wildwood Flower” for the processional. But I digress at length.)

Returning to the aforementioned Coolio song, the reason I recognized it was that I knew the tune from Weird Al’s “Amish Paradise” and that it was Coolio because at the time there was confusion over whether he had given Al permission to use it.

Song parodies have sometimes proved even more confusing. I have friends who write song parodies, and sometimes the only way I know a tune is from their songs. My friend Tom Smith, for example, wrote a parody of “The Colors of the Wind” called “The Curlers of Delenn,” a Babylon 5 reference. I heard the original one day in a supermarket and wondered why they were playing a Tom Smith song. (I missed the Pocahontas movie.) Tom’s parody of The Proclaimers’s “500 Miles,” “500 Hats,” a Dr. Seuss tribute song, has affected me the same way.

(I have other friends who write parodies, too. Michael Longcor is one. He wrote a parody of the old folk tune “Lorena,” except about Lorena Bobbit, and one of Buck Owens’s “Act Naturally” called “Write Romantically.” He even wrote a parody of one of his own songs, a beautiful, tender love ballad called “Eternity’s Waltz.” He made it into “Eternity’s Polka.” But I digress some more.)

Of course, it’s not likely that I’ll hear “The Curlers of Delenn” or “Eternity’s Polka” as soothing background music anytime soon. But I like to imagine the kind of restaurant that would have them. I’m pretty sure there’d be a life-sized cardboard cutout of Weird Al right next to the hostess stand.

El Ka-Bong!

cats, etc., family, humor, , ,

Once again, it all started with a cat, of course. I innocently walked downstairs on my commute to my office, and there he was. Toby. For the purposes of this story, aka Mr. Underfoot.

As you may have guessed by now, he was underfoot. I tripped over the wretched little beast and I tested gravity, landing on my ample, padded ass. (There used to be a photo of me on a zipline titled “My Giant Flying Ass,” due to the fact that the photographer was on the ground beneath me. The photo was quickly deleted. But I digress.) My fall would have been inconsequential, if mildly embarrassing.

Alas, there was a chair interrupting my trajectory. Not a nice, soft, comfy chair, either. A solid wood one. And I didn’t hit it ass-first. No, It intersected my fall on the back of my head. I shouted, and Toby took off.

I didn’t quite see little tweeting birdies fluttering around my brow, but I rapidly acquired one of their eggs on the back of my head. (Hence the title of this post. Extra points if you get the reference without Googling. But I digress again.) (Back in the day we used to call this a pump-knot rather than a goose egg. Why? I don’t know. No pumps seemed to be involved. Added digression.)

Now, the problem with being flat on your back at my age and level of decrepitude is that there isn’t a good way to re-achieve vertical status. In point of fact, there isn’t one.

Added to this indignity is the fact that my phone was in my study. (There was no pocket in my nightshirt. I habitually spend the night without a phone within reach. Weird, I know. But I digress yet again.) In order to summon help, I had to make it to my desk.

What to do? I managed to locomote by a crab-like method, scooting along on the aforementioned ass and hoisting myself as much as possible with my arms. Hoist, scoot, repeat. (With occasional pauses for much-needed rest.) There were obstacles along the way—a coffee table, for example, which didn’t provide enough leverage to get me off the ground, damn it. I maneuvered past the comfy chair, which likewise wasn’t any help at that point.

I made it to my desk and nabbed the phone. Did I call 9-1-1? I did not. I called my husband, who works just a mile and a half away. Even though it wasn’t time for his break, he came for me. And helped maneuver me into the comfy chair, where I caught my breath.

“You’re going to the ER,” he announced. I wasn’t inclined to argue. I exchanged my slippers for sturdy shoes and, leaning on Dan, made it to the car. (It seemed ridiculous to call an ambulance. The hospital is also about 1.5 miles from home. But I digress some more.)

At the hospital, I told my tale of woe, leaving out the part about my ass. They solemnly wrote, “tripped over cat” in my chart and wheeled me off for a CT scan (formerly known, ironically, as a CAT scan). Back in my cubicle, waiting for results, the nurse noticed my nightshirt. “How many cats do you have?” she asked.

“Just the one,” I said. “That’s enough.”

“I thought the 12 pictures of cats on your nightshirt might be your own cats. And you’ve got paw prints on your sneakers. You must love cats.”

Not so much at the moment, I thought.

When the CT results came back, they revealed no internal bleeding and only mild scrambling of my white and gray matter, plus some strain on my neck. I hopped into a wheelchair (well, tottered to one) and was on my way home, where I slept for the next 12 hours. Dan poked me regularly to make sure I was still breathing.

So, what did I learn from this experience? First, that maybe I should consider keeping my phone with me at all times. (I suppose I could wear it in a little pouch on a string around my neck. Or convince women’s PJ manufacturers to offer pockets. But I digress for the last time today.) Second, that we ought to move that chair out of the line of passage between the stairs and my study. And finally, that we need to change Toby’s nickname so that maybe it will decrease the time he spends underfoot.

Yeah, right. That’ll work.

I’m Melting!

etc., humor, , , , ,

We don’t have any AC, which has been a problem for some time. So of course my response was to buy a laptop computer.

Why? (I hear you ask.) Well, we spent all our money on fixing our car and our truck, which chose to break down simultaneously. A Pitman arm (whatever that is) and brakes, pads, and rotors later, we had moderately functional cars—until the Pitman arm vehicle blew a ball joint (whatever that is). Dan had to take a Lyft to our mechanic to pick up the car with the new brakes, another expense we hadn’t counted on. The one with no ball joint is still sitting in our driveway, inert. (The other one runs moderately well, except now the power steering has gone out and I can’t make turns with my frail, little bunny arms, so Dan is the only one who can drive it. But I digress.)

Back to the AC. My brave husband tried some potential fixes. Breakers. Turning it off and back on. Poking around the basement and outside where the compressor sits in hopes of finding something that looked like an inexpensive way to resurrect it.

No luck. No money to fix it.

Back to the laptop. Best Buy was having a sale on Apple computers, so I went shopping there. I found a refurbished laptop. (I must admit I accessorized with a mouse, a carrying case, and a subscription to Microsoft Office. The carrying case comes into play later in this story. But I digress some more.) Where did I get the money? We have a Best Buy credit card. It paid for a laptop but not a ball joint or a mechanic, which is a shame.

Again, why a laptop? I have a desktop computer, but it’s unluggable.

My plan was to put the laptop into the case with the mouse and head off to Panera if the day got scorching. (Panera has electrical outlets, wifi, and USB ports, which cannot be said for Waffle House, my original choice. Mcdonald’s was my other choice. They don’t have USB ports and electrical outlets, but they do have wifi, and I may still go there as their iced tea is cheaper than Panera’s. I figure I ought to buy something if I go to a restaurant, and keeping hydrated is important. But I digress yet again.)

This strategy would be inconvenient. With only one car operational, I’d have to take my husband to work at 5:30 a.m., go to Panera’s (or wherever) (if it’s open at that hour), and pick Dan up after work.

The next development was that I came into a little money from my ghostwriting, enough to buy a small window air conditioner, which was enough to keep my study—and my desktop computer—cool. We both now spend most of our time in my study.

But I discovered that I wanted to keep the laptop (was there ever any doubt?), so I used the rest of the money to make an extra payment on the credit card. I can use the laptop if I want to work in bed or when we go out of town. Or if I want to go to Panera or McDonald’s anyway. The laptop, though refurbished, has an operating system several generations newer than my desktop. It might also come in handy if the desktop computer goes the way of the car and the truck. (I don’t know whether computers have Pitman arms or ball joints. Digressing again.)

So, to recap, we now have a laptop, an air conditioner which enables us to live in one room of the house, and one car that works. (For the moment. It’s a 2001. The ball joint-deficient truck is a 1995. I don’t know how much longer its last legs will last. But I digress even more.) I have a writing assignment that should wrap up in September, and I can use that money to pay down the credit card some more.

It’s complicated, but at least we have options. We like options. Especially when we need to drop back five and punt. Or when we’re stranded in my study and I’m melting.

An Investment in the Future

education, etc., family, government, social policy, , , , , , ,

My investments are not stocks and bonds and they’re not biological, but they affect the future anyway.

I don’t have any children—I’m the proverbial cat lady—and because of that some people are saying that I’m not contributing to the future of our country or that I shouldn’t get an equal say in how our country is run. And I think that’s just plain wrong.

Some families have no children because they can’t have any. Others don’t want children, for whatever reason. But making the most fundamental right of our society dependent on whether a person has a child is a profound violation of the foundations of our democratic society. Even if you’re a strict constitutional constructionist, there’s absolutely nothing in there about voting being contingent on offspring. (That voting was originally limited to white male property owners is another issue that hasn’t yet been brought up.)

This proposal is billed as “pro-family,” but it’s nothing of the kind. It defines family as only one kind of family and denies rights—not privileges—to the rest. Granting those privileges to children, to be exercised by their parents, contradicts the basic principle of one person, one vote. When those children turn 18, they are welcome, even encouraged, to cast their votes for themselves. But allowing parents extra votes per child is nonsensical.

I wonder how long it will be before the definition of a family is a two-parent (heterosexual) couple with children. Will single mothers get to vote more than once, considering their children? Single fathers? If a family doesn’t include two parents living together, does the voting right automatically go to the mother? The father? These matters are far from clear. And unless I’m mistaken, they would require a constitutional amendment to go into effect. In other words, it’s grandstanding.

But leaving that political nonsense aside, what are the rights that childless people have, or should have, regarding children?

Well, first of all, our taxes pay for schools, parks, lunch programs, Head Start, child tax credits, nutrition programs, Social Security survivors and dependents, Social Security Disability, Medicaid and health insurance, and of course schools, among others. I’m paying into those whether I have children or not.

I don’t resent that. I think such programs are necessary and I’m glad to help fund them. The children and families they help impact me directly and indirectly. They will be my congressional representatives, my nursing home aides, the inventors of devices that will improve my life—every slot that must be filled to make society run, if not smoothly, then at least adequately.

Of course, not all children have the same start in life or pursue noble or necessary functions. I would like to help them do so. The way I can do this is to vote. These issues and functions affect me in very real ways that I have the right and the privilege to vote for.

And I do vote.

Now, let’s talk about schools. Because I don’t have children, many people think I should have no say in what happens in schools. I disagree. What happens in the schools affects me too. I want doctors who have a firm grounding in accepted science. I want bankers who have a keen grasp on economics. And I want government people who have a thorough understanding of civics. That means I have an investment in what goes on in schools and what children learn.

I’ll never be on a school board or even a member of the PTA, but I do get to vote for who’s on the school board and I pay attention to what they do. Now, I’ve got no problem if people want to homeschool their children or send them to private schools, as long as my tax dollars go to the public schools. Public money, public schools.

But don’t try to take away my rights as a citizen or come up with some hare-brained scheme to make my vote count for less. You can say the children are our future all you want.

But they’re my future too. Whether I’ve given birth to any or not.

Kneecapped!

etc., health, humor, , ,

It began with a cat, of course. No, it didn’t. It started with an Arabian horse. Either way, it was the beginning of the end for my body.

(Technically, it started with a bucket of wood. At one time, I annoyed my back by carrying the wood up two flights of stairs, the other option being freezing to death. But what I didn’t realize at the time is that an annoyed back will never allow you to forget. But I digress.)

Anyway, there I was at the vet with a sick cat. I bent forward maybe 15 degrees to put the cat on the examining table. And my back did more than complain. It stabbed. (“How big was the cat?” asked everyone who heard the story. It was a normal, eight-pound cat. But I digress some more.)

That led to my first experience with back surgery. After trying unsuccessfully to ignore the pain and treat it with drugs, I had what was called a micro-laminectomy. Basically, they delved into the small of my back and scooped out little bits of bone from between the discs, or maybe bits of disc from between the bones. It helped.

Enter the Arabian horse. A friend owned it and offered to let me ride it. Bareback. I knew it was a dicey proposition with my back’s former lack of cooperation, but it was an Arabian horse, so I took a chance. Shortly thereafter came another round of stabbing and another micro-laminectomy. I was pronounced good to go, until, the surgeon said, I wanted a metal rod up my spine. I didn’t. (Favorite quote: “Bone on bone.”) So I gave up on horses, however Arabian they might be.

(Dan and I were talking the other night. He said, “There comes a time when you try to do something and realize, no, I can’t do that anymore.” I replied that I hadn’t had to try turning a cartwheel to realize I could no longer do it. “Not since the Arabian horse,” I said. He admitted that I had a point. But I digress again.)

But all that’s in the past. What I have to deal with now owes nothing to carrying wood, escorting cats to the vet, horseback riding, or back surgery. Now I’ve found that I’ve been kneecapped. And not by a Mafioso. By my own knees, which apparently I’ve had for far too many years.

A few years back, I told my doctor that my knees made crackling sounds when I climbed stairs. “Come back when they hurt,” he said. They did, and I did. After a little while fooling around with Tylenol and ointments, he decided I should have steroid shots in my knees. With a huge syringe and a long needle. (It actually didn’t hurt that much. There was just a weird sense of pressure inside my knees.)

I got a referral to another doctor who gave the steroid shots more frequently. (Favorite quote: “Bone on bone.”) “When they don’t work anymore, we’ll talk knee replacement,” he said. I think he meant the shots not working. Maybe he meant my knees.

I don’t particularly want to get bionic knees, but I also don’t want to keep limping and stumbling. Never mind a “Good Hair Day.” I’m satisfied when I have a “Good Knee Day.”

My Emotional Support Ambient Noise

cats, etc., family, humor, music, television, ,

I need lots of emotional support. I get it from my husband. I get it from my cat. I get it from my bed, my pillow, and my blankets. I get it from my computer and my writing. I get it from music.

But I also get it from my television.

I need noise—some kind of noise—to keep me functioning until I go to bed. After that, I need no noise at all. Even the fans bother me. (Once I had to tell my husband, “Please don’t use power tools after I’ve gone to bed.” It was something I never thought I’d have to say, but there you are. Or there I was. But I digress.)

You’d think that television would produce the kind of noise that wouldn’t let me write. This is true of music, except for instrumental music. Music with vocals is just too distracting. Half the time I want to sing along. The rest of the time, the vocals are just too intrusive. (My theory, supported by neuroscience, is that my brain uses two areas when I hear vocal music—the part that recognizes language and the part that processes music. Combine the two and I have no brain left over for writing. But I digress again. Pedantically.)

Television, however, provides vocals but not much music, at least not the kind that invades my brain. And I don’t even really listen to the voices either, which I turn down not quite to a subliminal level.

How can I avoid hearing the voices? I put on programs I’ve watched a million times before, like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Inkmaster, Chopped, Mystery Diagnosis, or Forensic Files. They rattle around in the background, but not in my brain. (Occasionally, I glance over at the screen if something really interesting is going on such as the critiques on the episode of Inkmaster when everyone was supposed to tattoo someone’s ass and they all tattooed the flank/hip area. “Doesn’t anyone know where the ass is?” asked Dave Navarro. But I digress some more.)

This may be genetic (the need for ambient noise, not the location of the ass, though come to think of it, that’s genetic too). Anyway, my mother used to crochet a lot, and she often had a baseball game on in the background with the sound turned low. She didn’t even like baseball. I can only assume that it provided her with the kind of comforting background noise that I like. I imagine that football would be too raucous and basketball would be too frenetic. She could have chosen golf, I suppose, but baseball it was, at least during the season.

Anyway, I spend most of my time at home, alone in my study trying to write or edit. When Dan comes home, there’s plenty of noise and it’s attention-grabbing, not ambient. If I’m still writing, he’s quiet, except when he goes in the living room and watches TV there, usually the Screaming and Explosions Channel.

So, why do I think of my programs as emotional support? The house is pretty quiet when I’m alone here, except for the faint clicking of my keyboard and the cat, who pussy-foots and busy-noses when he’s not asleep. Ambient noise keeps me from feeling lonely and imagining that any tiny sound is an impending disaster. Loud sounds made by the cat signal actual disasters. My ambient noise grounds me and marks the passage of time. And it’s a whole lot more soothing than power tools.

Lost Kitty Tale

cats, etc., family, ,

Once there was a kitty who chose us as her family. My husband had seen her around the neighborhood, and one day she came trotting through the flowerbed up to our door and asked to be let in.

Dan instantly wanted to keep her. She was a young-ish calico, and he knew how much I love calicos. But I wasn’t sure. Our most recent calico, Julia, who was the most beautiful cat in the world (or so she told us) had died just a little while before, and I didn’t think I was ready to give my heart to another one.

Then fate stepped in. We saw a flyer in our neighborhood for a missing calico cat. The address was very close to us. So we called the people who put up the flyer and invited them over to check out the stray.

At this point, any normal person would have held out the cat and said, “Is this her?”

But I’m not (as you probably have noticed) a normal person. I left the cat in the bathroom, which is where we keep stray cats until they pass a vet check.

I approached the guy, the putative owner. “So you’ve lost your cat.”

“Yes,” he said.

“A calico.”

“Yes.”

“Is she thin or chonky?”

“Medium, I guess.”

“What color are her eyes?”

“Yellow.”

I continued the interrogation.

“What color is her nose?”

“Pink.”

“What’s her chin look like?”

“I don’t know. Nothing special, I guess.”

“What color are her feet?”

“White….” (He was beginning to catch on to the not-normal thing.)

He was batting less than 50 percent. Her nose was pink and her feet were white, which could have been true of any cat. But there were telltales. The stray was slender, not medium. There was a slight gray smudge on her chin. She had one green eye and one yellow, which was a dead giveaway.

At that point, I brought the cat out.

“No,” the neighbor said, disappointed. “That’s not her.” And he sadly left.

That was the moment that I knew that not only had she chosen us, but I had chosen her too.

We named her Dushenka (Russian for “Little Soul”) and she stayed with us for 12 years. She still escaped and went walkabout on occasion, just to keep her hand—er, her paw—in, but she always came back to us. We were hers.

Cran-Apple Schnapps and Other Atrocities

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My friend Tom Smith wrote a funny song containing the phrase “cran-apple schnapps” as an idea for a repellent beverage. Then Ocean Spray came up with Cran-Apple drink and suddenly, the whole thing seemed a bit less ridiculous. (Linguists used to have a thing called a cranberry morpheme, a part of a word that could only be used with one other word part. Cran only went with berry. Then Ocean Spray got creative and now the cranberry morpheme is a thing of the past. I guess now they call it a huckleberry morpheme. But I digress. Pedantically.)

Now Ocean Spray has even more flavors, including white-cran-strawberry, white-cran-peach, cran-lemonade, cran-tangerine, cran-pomegranate, cran-pineapple, cran-raspberry, cran-blueberry, cran-blackberry, cran-grape, cran-mango, cran-ruby-red-grapefruit, cran-citrus-mango-pineapple, cran-cherry, cran-lime, and cran-iced-tea. To me, they all sound like okay flavors for nonalcoholic beverages, but lousy flavors for schnapps.

Schnapps ought to come in regular flavors like peppermint and peach. (While doing my research for this post, I came across Cactus Juice Schnapps. My initial reaction was bleh, but I don’t really know and have no desire to find out. But I digress again.)

Vodka is another liquor that comes in an alarming variety of flavors: lemon, lime, lemon-lime, orange, tangerine, grapefruit, raspberry, strawberry, blueberry, teaberry, vanilla, black currant, chili pepper, cherry, apple, green apple, coffee, chocolate, cranberry, peach, pear, passion fruit, pomegranate, plum, mango, white grape, banana, pineapple, coconut, mint, melon, rose, herbs, bacon, honey, cinnamon, kiwifruit, whipped cream, tea, root beer, caramel, marshmallow, and many more.

I think I understand the fruit-flavored ones since vodka drinks often include limes, cranberries, or other fruits. But bacon vodka is just weird. Whipped cream and marshmallow flavors just sound abominable and an occasion for projectile barfing. (I understand that flavored vodkas were invented to entice more women to drink more vodka. Hasn’t worked on me. But I digress some more.)

Whiskey hasn’t escaped the flavor-fying either. Now there are whiskeys subtly or not-so-subtly tasting of spiced apple, cinnamon, cherry peach, apple, vanilla, peanut butter, blackberry, salted caramel, chocolate, caramel turtle, cookie dough, honey, jalapeno honey, chocolate cherry cream, banana, praline, gingerbread, black cherry, maple, strawberry, chocolate mint, ruby red grapefruit, salty watermelon, mango habanero, peanut butter jalapeno, marshmallow chocolate, coconut, birthday cake, whipped cream, pineapple, kettle corn, barbecue, butterscotch, s’mores, rocky road, espresso martini, pumpkin pie, lemon pepper, candy cane, blood orange, strawberry banana, and grilled pineapple. There’s even one called Elvis Midnight Snack whiskey with flavors of peanut butter, banana, and bacon.

(I sort of understand coffee whiskey, because there’s a wonderful whiskey drink called Irish Coffee. Chocolate mint, however—I love chocolate mints and I like whiskey, and I may or may not have eaten a chocolate mint while sipping whiskey, but as far as making the two one, I’ll pass. But I digress yet again.)

Soda flavors are getting more inventive too. I’ve recently encountered Spiced Coke, which is supposed to have an undertone of raspberry, but the only flavor I get when I drink it is cinnamon. I rather like it. There’s also Strawberries and Cream Dr. Pepper, which Dan likes; Cherry Lime Sprite; Baja Blast Mountain Dew (tropical lime, colored blue for some reason); vanilla, cherry, peach oolong tea, and mango Pepsi; Coke black cherry, lime, lemon, raspberry, mango or Coke marshmello (their spelling); 7-up cherry, citrus, orange, raspberry, tropical twist, pink grapefruit, pomegranate, and mixed berry; Dr. Pepper cream soda and cherry vanilla; and Mountain Dew cherry, lime, orange, raspberry, watermelon, lemonade peach, citrus cherry, and blackberry. Some of those are limited-time flavors or ones sold only overseas.

I don’t resent the fact that companies are introducing new flavors. Some of them I even like, and others my husband likes. And I know that adding new flavors is a way for them to attract new buyers who haven’t been satisfied with the usual choices.

But, for heaven’s sake, guys. Too much of a good thing is not necessarily a good thing. You’re taking up too much space on the shelves, and they’ll run out of the flavors I want. Use some restraint!

The Tyranny of SEO

books, etc., humor, language, writing, , ,

There’s a phenomenon called “search engine optimization,” or SEO for short. And I’ve grown to hate it.

The idea of SEO is to increase the chances of your post, article, book, or whatever being at the top of the responses to a Google search. Writers and publishers in particular are invested in making sure that their wares gain the attention of Google and then potential readers.

SEO works by focusing on keywords. There are certain words and phrases that people search for more than others. If your work contains these words, it will appear further up the Google results and, presumably, increase sales. It’s all about “search visibility” and marketing strategies. There are plenty of books and websites that teach you how to improve your SEO game.

What are some of the best, top keywords that people search for? Well, best and top show up high on the lists. Everyone wants to know the best places to eat or the top-rated appliances, so those words show up a lot. “How to” is another search term that gets top results.

There are lists of keywords for any number of fields. If you have a book or article on health and fitness, your SEO keywords include “weight loss,” “lifetime fitness,” and “health tips.” Business keywords include “money” (of course), “opportunity,” “income,” and “profitability.” There are lists of keywords for coffee, dog training, and poker, among many, many others. For one of my areas of interest, mental health, keywords include “symptoms,” “medication,” and “side effects.” There are companies that specialize in giving you a list of keywords for your project—for a price.

What really ticks me off is what this has done to book subtitles. (Yes, I know that there are much more important things to be ticked off about, especially these days. However, I work in the publishing field, so I get to see a lot of subtitles. But I digress.)

Let’s start with one that isn’t all that annoying: How to Sustain Personal and Organizational Excellence Every Day. Eight words only. But look at the SEO keywords. We have Personal and Organizational Excellence. Sustain may be a keyword too, and so might Every Day. What could the author have done instead? Organizational Excellence ought to do it. Combined with a title like Habits for Success, that ought to do it. Still plenty of SEO words. Or just have a title: Success and Organizational Excellence. No subtitle. But that goes against every publishing rule, evidently.

Here’s another subtitle that’s been reined in just a bit: Reflections on Death, Rebirth, and Hunger for a Faith. Nine words. It says what you’ll find in the book without going on and on. Just enough to pique the potential readers’ interest. (While we’re on the subject of things that tick me off (and I think we were), I cringe whenever I see “peak” someone’s interest, or, God help me, “peek.” But I digress again.)

Now here’s a subtitle that goes a little further overboard: Dynamic Techniques for Turning Fear, Indecision, and Anger into Power, Action, and Love. Thirteen words. Dynamic Techniques, Power, Action, and Love are obvious self-help SEOs. I can imagine the title that would go with it: Transform Your Life.

Let’s keep going. Next on my list of terrible subtitles is Stop People Pleasing, Staying Silent, & Feeling Guilty… And Start Speaking Up, Saying No, Asking Boldly, And Unapologetically Being Yourself. Twenty words, one of them a mouthful by itself: unapologetically. Honestly, I think you could read the first chapter in the time it takes to read the subtitle.

Finally, here’s a subtitle that really grates: Transform Your Body in 28 Days with Illustrated Exercises. Lose Belly Fat, Sculpt Glutes, and Feel More Energized in Just 10 Minutes a Day! Twenty-four words, four verbs, and a plethora of nouns and adjectives. And a promise with an exclamation point. What is there left to say in the book? Whoever wrote that subtitle ought to have their thyroid checked.

On the other hand, maybe I’m just jealous. I wrote two books before SEO took off. (I still get royalties. I’m saving up for a pizza. But I digress some more.) Maybe I should have called them Bipolar Me: The True Story of One Woman’s Journey Through Mental Illness, Depression, and Hypomania, Based on Her Weekly Journal of the Same Name and Bipolar Us: A Deep Dive into Bipolar Disorder and Its Devastating Effects on Sufferers and Society, the Highs and Lows That Come With It, and How to Find Peace and Stability.

Of course, if I did that, the subtitles would have had to be printed in little tiny type, another aspect of publishing that really ticks me off. With my bad eyesight, I wouldn’t even be able to read my own subtitles. I can’t win.