Category Archives: funny things

Thoughts on Editing

etc., funny things, humor, language, writing, ,

When it comes to language, I used to be a prescriptivist, telling others how language ought to be used. Now I am a descriptivist, recording how language is used in practice.

Oh, I haven’t entirely given up my mission to get people to use proper grammar, spelling, and punctuation. I still feel that writing “correctly” can be important to the meaning of whatever it is you’re writing about. And I still cringe when someone (usually my husband) says “foilage” instead of “foliage” or “nucular” instead of “nuclear.” But that’s speech, which is very different than writing.

Of course, an editor can’t really edit spoken English aside from pronunciation. Well, there are malapropisms and misplaced modifiers.

Malapropisms occur when a speaker substitutes an incorrect word for a correct one. One headline that makes the rounds on Facebook is about an “amphibious” pitcher, when “ambidextrous” is meant.

Misplaced modifiers are descriptive phrases in the wrong place in a sentence. The classic misplaced modifier is Groucho Marx’s “Last night I shot an elephant in my pajamas. What it was doing in my pajamas I’ll never know.” (A misplaced modifier is often confused with a dangling modifier, which happens when an introductory phrase modifies the wrong subject in a sentence: “Painting for three hours, the portrait was finally finished.” Who is painting for three hours? We don’t know, but it certainly wasn’t the portrait. I once worked with a man who described any kind of grammatical mistake, even a subject-verb agreement error, as a dangling modifier. But I digress.)

One of the places I often encounter “faulty” grammar, spelling, and punctuation is on social media. I have to think twice before I share memes with errors in them because I’m afraid someone will think that I don’t know the difference. (I know Lizzie Borden’s name isn’t spelled “Bordon,” but I couldn’t resist the joke: “If you get any messages from my parents, don’t answer them. They’ve been hacked.” But I digress again.)

Speaking of memes, I once saw one that said one shouldn’t look down on someone who mispronounces less-familiar words. It means they learned them from seeing them in print rather than hearing them. One of my dear friends treated the word “sarcophagus” that way and came to me to learn the proper pronunciation. I was happy to oblige. (I’ve also heard of the phenomenon going the other way. Another guy I knew had only ever heard the name Sigmund Freud spoken. He wrote it down as “Froid,” a fair guess based on the sound, but outrageously inaccurate nonetheless. But I digress yet again.)

When it comes to language I do like, however, I love new additions to English. “Portmanteau” words are particularly fun. They’re made up of two words or parts of words smashed together to mean something new. One that everyone knows (but don’t realize is a portmanteau) is “smog,” which comes from “smoke” and “fog.” (I say I like them, but not the ugly portmanteau words that crop up, especially during the holidays. Nothing is simply a sale. It’s always an “aganza,” “palooza,” “bration,” or “thon.” The first million times someone did that, it may have been clever, but the shine has long worn off. But I digress some more.)

Anyway, back to editing. I hereby apologize to everyone whose infinitives I unsplit and whose prepositions I moved away from the end of sentences. I’m really sorry. My bad. Think of me as a recovering prescriptivist. Maybe not fully recovered yet, but I try.

The Whisker Jar

cats, etc., family, funny things, humor, pets,

Cat whiskers are wonderful things. They’re early warning sensory apparatus that let cats know what’s close by. They sense vibrations that indicate changes in air currents, revealing the size, shape, location, and motion of objects or creatures in the cat’s immediate environment. Other sensory organs at the base of the whiskers keep the cat aware of where its body is in space and what’s around it. They supplement the cat’s eyesight. They help keep small particles away from their eyes as well. And their length corresponds to the cat’s shoulders, indicating the width of spaces that cats can get through.

But we know what’s really important. Cat whiskers are adorable. (So are cat eyebrows. Not as prominent as the whiskers by the nose, the eyebrow hairs are wispier. Their function is probably to help protect the eyes but also to give the cat a variety of darling facial expressions. But I digress. I was talking about whiskers.)

Our cat Toby has brittle whiskers. Just when the white appendages start getting long and magnificent like a respectable cat’s, they simply break off, leaving little inch-long stumps. They do grow back, but for a while, he looks like a pincushion instead of a mighty hunter. I guess Toby is just a little less than respectable. (It wouldn’t surprise me. The little dickens.)

We have had cats with properly impressive whiskers. Shaker, a tuxedo cat, accessorized with thick, long vibrissae (to be correct and pedantic). She was very proud of them and clearly thought they were one of her finest assets. They didn’t break off the way Toby’s do, but every now and then, she’d shed one, leaving a fine, thick, easy-to-spot whisker lying on the carpet. Ordinarily, we’d pick up the whisker and store it in a little ceramic pot we called the Whisker Jar. (No, I don’t know quite why we did this. We didn’t do anything with them, like voodoo spells. They just seemed too magnificent to dispose of, and we wanted to see how many we could accumulate. But I digress again.)

Once, however, we decided to have a little fun with one of the whiskers she had shed. We took one of them from the whisker jar and placed it on her head. It stood straight up, protruding from her sleek, black head like an alien antenna. Inspired, we started making boop-boop noises.

Shaker was deeply offended. She was a cat with a great sense of dignity. (Except when she rolled over and showed her fluffy white belly, inviting a belly rub. Then she looked like a chubby black-and-white kitten, which I suppose she used to be. (We got her as a full-grown cat. But I digress some more.)

Anyway, Shaker clearly objected to having her aplomb assaulted in this fashion. She sensed that we were making fun of her (we were) and she expressed her displeasure—and not by leaving an unpleasant deposit somewhere for us to find unexpectedly when we were barefoot. Instead, she used the power of her remaining whiskers. They turned down in a disapproving manner, rendering her face a veritable mask of scorn.

Then we laughed uproariously, compounding the offense. Shaker retreated in high dudgeon, shaking her head indignantly and dislodging the whisker as she went.

We picked it up and put it back in the Whisker Jar. You never know when you might need another belly laugh.

DPF&P

funny things, family, etc., language, ,

“DBF&P” is one of the mantras that Dan and I have, and we have to use it often. As you may have guessed from the visual, it’s a football term. (Not that either one of us is a football fan. Dan isn’t any kind of sports fan (he asks me regularly if I mind that he isn’t) and I only ever watch Olympic gymnastics. But I digress.)

So, what does DBF&P mean? It’s a saying we use when everything seems to be going wrong. What are we going to do? Drop back five and punt.

It’s useful in so many situations. Don’t have enough money to pay a certain bill? Drop back five and punt. Don’t have any side dishes to go with the pork loin? Drop back five and punt. Don’t know what to tell Dan’s mom about our politics? Drop back five and punt. Can’t get transportation to a doctor’s appointment? Drop back five and punt. (In those situations, DBF&P might mean moving money around; finding the can of sliced new potatoes we bought once upon a time; discussing the weather and the cats; or calling Lyft. But I digress some more.)

Now, as to how we came up with this useful locution, I’d have to say its origins are shrouded in the mists of time. I don’t remember a time when we didn’t use it. And now I pass it along to you. Feel free to use it whenever you don’t know what to do.

What other sports phrases might you use when you don’t know what to do? Pick up the spare? Fake left and juke right? Bite their ear off? Play out the clock? Bob and weave? Take a shot? Tuck? Duck? Bunt? (That one’s actually pretty good.)

But we don’t stop there. Dan and I have other mantras, too. One of my favorites is “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” (Dan’s usual response to that is, “I knew you were going to say that.”) There’s also, “The cat did it,” “Ow, Toby!” and “I can’t get up. There’s a cat on me.”

We have separate mantras when one or the other of us loses something like our keys or wallet, sayings inherited from our fathers. Mine used to say, “I’m going to tie it on a string and hang it around your neck.” Dan’s father, who was sometimes more colorful, would say, “If it was up your ass, you’d know where it was.” Undeniable words to live by.

I suppose these aren’t really mantras since we don’t sit and meditate on them. Probably not affirmations, either, which have to be more inspiring. Generally, they’re preludes to action (except the one about the cat on the lap). Maybe they’re mottos. Catchphrases, perhaps?

One catchphrase we have is borrowed from a TV series. We always use it when we start singing a lyric and forget the next line. (We do this a lot. Both of us tend to sing somewhat-appropriate songs as part of conversation. If he says that we’re going to clean up the entire kitchen, I’ll burst into “To Dream the Impossible Dream.” If I say I’m going to get around to cleaning the kitchen, he’ll start singing “I Get Around.” But I digress again.) Anyway, when we draw a blank on the next line, we use Homer Simpson’s classic “D’oh!” (Homer himself once used it this way, when he was singing a song about what to do in case of fire. He ended it, “There is something you should learn. Something, something. D’oh!” But I digress yet again.)

I suppose we ought to pay The Simpsons royalties every time we say “D’oh!” I don’t know who to pay for DBF&P.

Don’t Harsh My Buzz

etc., food, funny things, , , , ,

Haters gonna hate. But I wish they wouldn’t, at least when it comes to personal preferences.

At this time of year, there is one major group of haters: those who hate pumpkin spice, who think it ought to be abolished. Who make fun of the people who enjoy a nice pumpkin spice latte.

I don’t get it. I love cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, allspice, and cloves. I’m especially fond of cinnamon and ginger. In fact, I love them so much that I believe all pumpkin pies should be made with more of the spices than are called for in the recipe so as not to be overwhelmed by the pumpkin, which is, after all, not all that flavorful.

And yet some people hate on pumpkin spice “everything.” I don’t often drink coffee and never lattes, so I don’t know exactly how a pumpkin spice latte tastes. But my bet is that it doesn’t contain any actual pumpkin flavor. It’s got to be doctored with only the spices. I don’t see anything wrong with that. Obviously, there’s a market for it, or Starbucks et al. wouldn’t be offering it. And offering it in September is totally legitimate. September is the gateway to fall.

(Except this year, of course. September is meant to herald the onset of sweater weather. This year, it’s still the month of boob sweat rash. But I digress.)

There are lots of other things made with pumpkin spice that are delightful as well. There are cakes and cookies, candy and cereal, bread and pancakes, soup and cheesecakes, muffins and doughnuts, macarons and popcorn, protein shakes and yogurt. But if you hate pumpkin pie spice, you can simply not buy them. You don’t have to declare how much you dislike them. As some of my friends say, “Don’t yuck my yum.” (We old hippies say “Don’t harsh my buzz,” hence the title of this post. Other formulations include “Don’t harsh my mellow,” and “Don’t be a buzzkill.” But I digress again.)

There are other things that people hate on. Country music. Rap music. Superhero movies. Horror movies. Romance novels. Science fiction novels. Et endless cetera.

Some of these impinge on me personally. I love country music (at least classic country and what they call Americana these days). Yet when a person says that they love country, people assume they’re an ignorant, racist redneck. I love science fiction, but I’m not a teenage, basement-dwelling geek. Those are stereotypes. Like most stereotypes, there’s a reason they exist. And also like stereotypes, they don’t apply to everyone.

Basically, I think all this hate would lessen if more people understood Sturgeon’s Law, which says, “90 percent of everything is crap.” (Sturgeon is Theodore Sturgeon, a science fiction author. One of the Big Names, at least of the old guard. But I digress some more.)

What Sturgeon meant is that 90 percent of anything you’d care to name is crap: 90 percent of country music is crap; 90 percent of rap music is crap; 90 percent of science fiction is crap; 90 percent of romance novels are crap; and so on. And 90 percent of coffee drinks are crap, I suppose.

That leaves 10 percent of everything that isn’t crap—indeed, it may be extraordinary. But the catch is that you have to wade through the 90 percent of crap to get to the 10 percent of great. And most people aren’t willing to wade through the crap to get to the non-crap. It’s much easier just to dismiss the whole 100 percent as crap.

All I’m really asking is that you leave the pumpkin spice lovers alone. Don’t yuck their yum. If you don’t like country music, you don’t have to go through the 90 percent to get to the 10 percent that I love. Don’t harsh my buzz.

Life would be a lot more pleasant if everyone would simply refrain from yucking yums and harshing buzzes.

Is that too much to ask?

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 Cat Burglars

etc., funny things, language, television, ,

I used to live in a drafty log cabin on a windy hill. There were plenty of odd noises, especially at night. Now I live in a regular home in a windy valley, with lots of clutter. There are still plenty of odd noises, especially at night.

It’s been my policy to blame the cats (usually from three to five of them) for any noises – rattling, thumping, skittering, whining, tapping, crashing, howling, et endless cetera. Even if every cat in the house is occupying my lap at the time, I still try to find a way to blame alarming noises on them.

One night, however, my husband and I were peacefully sleeping when I thought I heard a noise in the living room.

It sounded like whispering.

Whatever else they do, cats don’t whisper. For once I couldn’t blame them. It had to be burglars, I thought, discussing what they wanted to take or which house to hit next or why we had such crappy stuff and was any of it worth anything.

I didn’t want to wake my husband, because then I’d have my N.O.W. card taken away, so I tried to remember where we put the baseball bat and extended my hearing as far as it would go. I crept closer to the bedroom door, where I could hear the sounds better.

Then I realized that the noise was indeed people whispering. In French.

Even in my fearful, dazed state, I couldn’t believe that there were actually burglars in my house, in Ohio, speaking French.

So I tiptoed into the living room. If for some unlikely reason, there were French-speaking burglars, I could astound them with my knowledge of French, threaten to call the gendarmes, or at least ask them for directions to the bibliothèque. (That’s most of what I remember of my high school and college French. I also remember some of my college Russian, in which I can say useful things like “Excuse me, please. Where do they sell books on history?” and “Yes, cabbage is a good thing.” (At least I would never be bored or starve.) But I digress.)

When I tentatively poked my head into the living room, however, I found the French speakers were on the television. A foreign film was playing. Funny. I hadn’t left the TV on when I went to bed.

Hm. My husband doesn’t watch foreign films or know any French or other foreign languages. (Actually, that’s not quite true. He knows a song in high school German that goes “My hat has three corners. Three corners has my hat. If it doesn’t have three corners, it’s not my hat.” But I digress some more.) Besides, he was asleep in bed.

Then I realized what had happened. Someone had activated the remote and selected a film channel. With the sound very low. Although I couldn’t name the culprit, it was clearly Matches or Maggie or Chelsea or Shaker, all of whom were giving me the “Who, me?” look. One of them had done it, or they had all cooked up the plot together. There was no use dusting for paw-prints. No doubt they had wiped them off with their floofy tails.

So the one time I knew it couldn’t be the cats, it was. Now I blame them for everything. Always.

The Horse I Rode In On

etc., funny things, humor, travel, , , , , , ,

It all started with a vulgar radio ad and turned into an adventure. ([sultry female voice: I wanna ride!])

I really hated the ads, but the premise was intriguing—a weekend horseback camping trip, complete with guide. So Dan and I gathered up Sheila and Harold—another couple who had an interest in horses—and signed up.

(All this was in the days before I abused my back by riding an Arabian horse bareback. The first time I annoyed it was when I had to carry wood up two flights of stairs or freeze to death. But I digress.)

Anyway, we met Larry, our guide, who showed up with four horses and all manner of camping equipment. He set up two tents for us and even found a way to connect my husband’s CPAP machine to power. Then we went out on the trail.

I didn’t have any trouble managing my horse at that point. But Sheila couldn’t get her horse to giddy-up no matter how she kicked, shook the reins, and verbally encouraged it along. It remained stubborn. (Later in life, Sheila and Harold bought horses of their own. Sheila even taught her horse dressage. But I digress again.)

The woods we rode through were as scenic as could be. There were trees that provided cool shade in the heat of the summer day. Unfortunately, Dan’s horse made a game of bumping into tree trunks and whacking his knees. The horses proceeded at a walk or a trot and occasionally broke into a canter. Frankly, I preferred the walk and the canter. The walk gave me time to look around and the canter was exhilarating and didn’t involve bumping up and down quite as much as the bruising trot.

We rode deep into the woods and then the nature, which was all around us, called. Dan had no problems with this (aside from getting down off his horse) and neither did Harold, but Sheila and I had to pee al fresco. (Fortunately, this was a skill I acquired in my youth on backpacking trips. I knew enough to carry tissues and avoid poison ivy. This is one of the only times I can truly be said to have had penis envy. But I digress some more.)

When we returned to camp in the evening, we learned that Larry was also our cook and an old hand at producing good meals over a wood fire. Not to say gourmet meals. This was before glamping was a thing.

Larry also rustled up a fine breakfast as we crawled out of our tents. We ached not just from the (admittedly) less-than-strenuous riding, but also from sleeping on thin tarps that only emphasized the pebbles beneath. We were all more interested in having several cups of very good coffee than getting back on the horses. This, of course, would cause a recurrence of the peeing problem later in the day.

Around the campfire that night, Larry told us how he had started his business and how other campers spent the whole time galloping their horses from one end of a field to the other and back again. No marauding trees or recalcitrant steeds for them.

The next day, we were back to our regular lives and jobs. There were some mementos of our experience. Dan had bashed-up knees. And you should have seen my inner thighs. (Well, no, you shouldn’t.)

While it was a memorable experience, we seriously doubted that we would be repeat customers. We were just too candy-ass. All in all, the adventure was like the Tower of Terror ride at DisneyWorld. It’s not that the horseback adventure was terrifying. It’s just that I’m glad I went on it once, but I’d hesitate to try it again, especially since my back won’t let me.

You Haven’t Changed a Bit

education, etc., funny things, , , ,

Well, yes I have. More than a bit. I’m going to a high school reunion this year (one of the big ones), and I don’t expect to hear that I haven’t changed.

Of course, most of us have changed. In addition to our age, our weight, hair color, careers, and family are not likely to be the same as they were in high school. (I would say, like the old joke, that I can still wear the earrings I wore in high school. But that’s not true. I didn’t get my ears pierced until I was in my 20s. But I digress.)

Many things have happened in my life that I’m fairly sure will surprise the other alums. Here’s a list of the sort that some reunions publish in a handy booklet in order to re-introduce ourselves. Instead of places I’ve traveled and impressive career milestones, I offer for your consideration these changes I’ve gone through.

  1. I’m married and have been for 41 years, which I never expected back then. No children. (Or, obviously, grandchildren, which I know many of my former classmates have. I anticipate having many pictures offered to me for oohs and ahs. I’ll start practicing now. But I digress again.)
  2. I kept my birth name. (I don’t like the term “maiden name” because it implies that all brides are virgins, and we know this is not the case. I wore an ivory dress so no one would snicker. But I digress some more.)
  3. I now swear like a highly educated sailor. I learned how when I was a waitress, working my way through college.
  4. I have bipolar disorder. I talk about it openly. When I was in high school (and after), I had a reputation for being moody, difficult, and weird, which there was also no hiding. So at least now there’s an explanation for that.
  5. Despite the fact that I majored in English in both undergrad and grad school, I have never become a burger-flipper or a retail worker. I’ve managed to stay employed more or less in my field, having been an editor/writer, college teaching assistant, and now, ghostwriter. (I’ll skip right over my tenure as a meeting transcriptionist (even though I’m the world’s worst typist, never having taken it in school, which proved to be a big mistake when I had to write all those papers in college) and a security system monitor. I also once had a job inventorying hardware stores at night after they closed. One does what one has to in order to keep cat food in the bowl. But I digress yet again.)
  6. I have tattoos. Two of punctuation, one of books, one for my mother (a compass rose and a yellow rose), and one for my husband (heart locket and key; he has a matching one).

The last time I had a big reunion to go to, I was beyond anxious. My high school days were not happy ones. I asked my hairstylist to make me look sane and successful. My friend Mary Jo, who worked for the local paper (now retired), wrote a column about my pre- and post-reunion experiences. This time, I’m encouraged by the number of my former classmates who’ve said they would like to see me there.

I’ve said I’d go to at least the casual drinks get-together (oh, yes, I also drink alcohol now, at least to the extent of a couple of beers). And I’ll bring my husband, who’s entertaining because he looks like Jerry Garcia. More than that, I can’t promise. I believe I’ll skip the picnic/dance. My knees are shot— bionic knees to come. In that, I know I resemble some of my former classmates. However, just sitting there while everyone else dances doesn’t appeal.

As for the rest of it, I’m no longer so worried about appearing sane and successful. This time, I’d rather appear happier and more interesting.

The Rise of the Asterisk

books, etc., funny things, humor, language, literature, , , , , ,

It’s well-known (by people who know me) that I love punctuation. I read books about punctuation. I have two punctuation tattoos. My favorite mark of punctuation is the semicolon (which is one of the tattoos I have). But lately, when it comes to punctuation, the asterisk is in the ascendancy. And that’s because an increasing number of books have swear words in their titles. Punctuation is how we address the problem delicately.

The first example of the trend and at the time most shocking was Go the F**k to Sleep, a book that purported to be a read-to-kids goodnight book, but was really an expression of parental frustration. It caused quite a buzz.

After that came The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck (and the more daintily titled The Subtle Art of Not Caring About People’s Opinion), I Used to Be a Miserable F*ck, Unfu*k Yourself, The French Art of Not Giving a Sh*t, and F*ck Feelings. For those who prefer hashtags, there’s Unf#ck Your Brain. The winner for the longest title is The Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving a F*ck: How to Stop Spending Time You Don’t Have with People You Don’t Like Doing Things You Don’t Want to Do (A No F*cks Given Guide). And Everything is #@%!ed! uses a whole string of punctuation. Fucking This shit Show: A Gratitude Journal for Tired Women dispenses with the veil of punctuation altogether. (I can’t help that inconsistent capitalization. That’s the way it’s written. Maybe shit is supposed to look less threatening in lowercase? But I digress.)

(When marks of punctuation are used as stand-ins for letters or words, they’re called “grawlix,” an almost completely useless word, but one I’m quite fond of. Most people have seen grawlix only in comic books when Popeye, for example, wants to cuss. But I continue digressing.)

What’s the reason for all the daintily disguised sweary titles? It’s not like we don’t know what the asterisks stand for. It’s not fooling anyone. Go the F**k to Sleep was obviously meant to be shocking, though it also expressed humor and frustration. After that, it looks like a bandwagon was jumped on. The book even jumped on its own bandwagon. Now it’s a trilogy, including You Have to F**king Eat and F**k, Now There Are Two of You.

(I note that most of the sweary titles go with self-help books. Does this indicate a certain irreverence regarding the concept of self-help? Frustration with the concepts in the books? I know I’ve wanted to swear at self-help books during various periods of my life. Now I write them, though (so far) none have titles that require grawlix. But I digress some more.)

Personally, I have no objection to swearing. For a long time, I couldn’t do it, but after working as a waitress, I made up for lost time. Now I swear like a sailor, though with better enunciation. Sometimes, a curse word is just the right one. And of course, when I use a swear word in writing, I punctuate it properly. No grawlix here.

My favorite unexpected use of punctuation, however, comes in this brief verse:

Mary’s little lamb / Upon the grass did frisk. / But Mary was afraid / Her little * .

Now that’s creative punctuation!

Saga of the CPAP

etc., family, funny things, humor, ,

“You want me to put KY jelly up my nose?” I asked.

“Basically, yes,” the tech replied.

It was my first appointment getting a CPAP machine. The tech who fitted the mask warned me of possible nasal irritation and suggested I use a “non-petroleum personal lubricant.” Hence my question.

For those not in the know, CPAP machines are the best solution for sleep apnea, which occurs when you stop breathing multiple times during the night. It can be just as serious as it sounds. Snoring and feeling exhausted all day (which I had) are some of the symptoms, and being overweight is one of the contributing factors (which I must admit to).

I was diagnosed after going through a sleep study with assorted wires glued all over my head and body. I had to sleep like that, if I could. I brought along a stuffed bunny to help. (The tech who applied the wires quizzed me—did I know what EKG meant? Yes, I did. Did I know what EEG meant? Yes, I did. Did I know what EGG meant. “Egg,” I replied, evidently the first person ever to get it right. But I digress.)

It was thus determined that I do indeed have sleep apnea. (Or at least hypopnea, a slightly milder version, from the roots “hypo” for low and “pnea” for breathing. Think “hypoglycemia” and “pneumonia.” Now I digress pedantically.)

I was then fitted for the CPAP machine, which consists of a box and a mask. The box blows air rhythmically into your nose while you sleep, thus forcing you to breathe. The mask channels the air into your nose, along with the smell of whatever you had for dinner, if your bedroom is just above the kitchen, which ours is.

The first CPAP machine I got had a tattletale chip in it to record whether I was using it or not. They were in awe when they discovered that I used it even when napping.

Actually, my husband has the full-blown version of sleep apnea and started using a CPAP before I did. His snoring was prodigious as well. He could wake both of us when he really got going. The two of us together created a racket that would raise the dead, if we didn’t both die from sleep apnea first.

He has more trouble with his mask than I do, and his problem can’t be solved with a popular sexual aid. For some reason, probably the stress he puts on them, the straps get tangled, and the plastic parts break. He’s always asking me to untangle or tighten the straps. Sometimes I have to adjust them in the middle of the night when I can’t see well. Inevitably, I velcro the straps to his hair, which is curly enough to be the loops to the hooks.

We take our CPAPs with us whenever we travel. It’s a hassle. The air pressure machine, the hose, and the mask take up half the space in a carry-on. There are smaller ones, including one that’s no bigger than a small bandaid but is way too expensive. Besides, I’d have to go through another sleep study to get a prescription for a new CPAP. My bunny’s up for it, but I’m not.