Words for Nerds

In the Doghouse

Posted on December 9, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

The first do-it-yourself carpentry project I remember attempting, when I was too young to know any better, was a stick horse. To start out with, I had a wooden head. (That would have been the horse's head—and aren't you ashamed of that unkind thought you just had?) It was cut out of plywood, and I think it may have been something I painted in school.

Anyway, my self-assigned task was to attach the head to a broomstick to make a complete horse. I remember working away, one eighth of a turn of a screwdriver at a time, to screw the two pieces of wood together, until I simply couldn't turn the screws any further. I had no idea that a real carpenter would have drilled holes first.

Another time I started to build a doghouse. I had the idea that you needed to start with a frame and then put boards on the sides, but that was about the extent of my architectural skills. I got four scrap two-by-fours nailed together into a crooked rectangle for the base, and then got stuck when I couldn't figure out how to attach the uprights at the corners. I had maxed out my skills. Since I was scrounging scraps of wood, I ran out of material about the same time, and abandoning the whole project seemed like the only good idea left. You might say the doghouse never got off the ground.

Quite a few years later, as a beginning adult with a toolbox of my very own and a college degree (including a major in art which, unfortunately, didn't encompass anything useful like "Introduction to Doghouse Design"), I set out to build a house for our outdoor cat.

The style was Early Grocery Box. It consisted of one cardboard box inside another with insulating material stuffed in between. I cut a nice round (well, almost round) door into one side and put a couple of towels inside for flooring. I even gave the whole thing a coat of blue paint for waterproofing before I put it in the coziest corner of the front porch. It was kind of cute, in its own lopsided way.

As far as I know, the cat never spent a single night—heck, not a single minute—inside the house. Maybe he didn't like the color.

Or maybe he was too embarrassed to be seen going into the uneven little door. Being a smart cat, maybe he had noticed the difference in connotation the English language gives to "doghouse" and "cathouse." As in, "He was in the doghouse for a long time after his wife found out about his visit to the cathouse."

Wondering about the peculiarities of language may not be any more satisfying than trying to build doghouses or cathouses, but it certainly is easier. I'm a lot less likely to stab myself with a screwdriver, for one thing. And any half-finished constructions that don't work out? All I have to do is hit "delete" on my computer, and all the evidence of my false starts and miscalculations magically disappears.

If only I could do the same with the half-started creations on my sewing machine and my workbench. Somebody really needs to invent a universal "delete" button, something like a television remote. It would be the perfect tool for wannabe crafters like me who persist in imagining they can create vast projects with half-vast skills.

Categories: Remembering When, Words for Nerds | Tags: , | 1 Comment

The Doc Will See You Now

Posted on November 18, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

Waiting with eager anticipation for the dental hygienist to summon me, I was browsing through a magazine. Not knowing it was going to provide me with a target—er, material—I didn't especially notice its name, but it had something to do with women's health. It was obviously targeted at a demographic other than hopelessly last-century me, with its bright colored frenetic layout and breezy editorial style.

According to a snappy little article about skin health, suspicious moles, spots, or rashes were all reasons to consult your "derm." After a couple of encounters with this truncated usage, I figured out this was just-between-us-girls shorthand for the doctor a more dignified age would have called a "dermatologist."

Another article, or possibly an ad—the distinction between content and commerce wasn't clear—made me painfully aware that the professional to be consulted for reproductive and pelvic issues is now a "gyno." "Gynecologist" is so old-fashioned, not to mention hard to spell and time-consuming to text.

Presumably, a woman might also need to consult other medical specialists from time to time. A gastro, perhaps, or a surg. Even, for more serious issues, possibly a cardio or an onco. Her children, of course, would be taken to a ped or perhaps a pedia. Her parents' failing hearing might lead them to consult an audio. Those annual eye exams would be done by an optho—so much easier to pronounce than the clumsy "ophthalmologist." An ortho would be the person to see if you broke an ankle, especially if the accident happened while you were fertilizing the lawn. On occasion, it might even be necessary to see a uro or even a procto.

I didn't have a chance to find out whether any of these other professionals were mentioned in the magazine. The hygienist interrupted me before I got that far. It was my turn to see the dent.

Just in time, too. I was almost stressed enough from all the amputated English to need a visit to the psych.

(Yes, I know. We take our animals to the vet, and we've done so for years. That's different. Don't ask me how or why; it just is.)

Categories: Words for Nerds | Tags: , , , | 1 Comment

“Got Milk in That Silk?”

Posted on October 14, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

Milk silk. It's an idea, according to NPR, whose time has come.

A report that aired October 7, 2011, on "Morning Edition" featured the upcoming line of clothing from a German designer. The silk-like fabric is made from the protein casein in cow's milk. Apparently, people have been experimenting with milk fabrics since the 1930's—who knew?—but this may be the first time anyone is trying to sell clothes made from it. The process is supposedly chemical-free, and it takes less than two gallons of milk to make a dress.

I don't know whether milk silk garments will ever join nylon, rayon, and polyester as common fare on the racks at Sears or Wal-Mart. It's not likely to happen unless maintaining a dairy full of cows is more cost-effective than raising silk worms. But I do hope this new fabric catches on, if only for the marketing possibilities.

By way of example, here are just a few possible products that Milk Made Clothiers might include in its Udder Undies line:

The Cow Slips, featuring embroidered flowers in delicate shades of primrose.

The Jersey jersey lightweight sports bras.

The Cal-See-Um novelty sheer teddies.

The Cud-dler line of warm winter undergarments.

The Open Range line of men's boxer shorts.

The Milk Shake bras, designed especially for fuller figures.

The Bum Steer line of panties for the British market.

The Bossy bras—firm support for the executive woman on her way up.

The Moo-La-La combo, our sheerest teddy with matching Latte Lace thong.

The Cow Patty panties—just a touch of Spandex to give you those tempting, touchable curves.

The Dairy-Air bikini panties—so light and comfortable you'll forget you have them on.

And these are only a few of the possibilities. I'm sure a really good marketing expert could milk this idea for all it was worth.

Categories: Words for Nerds | Tags: , , , , , , | 3 Comments

How Come Everybody Knows This Stuff But Me?

Posted on September 30, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

Maybe it's because I spent grades kindergarten through eight in a rural school that never had more than five pupils. (I was the only person in my high school physical education class who didn't know how to play softball.) Maybe it's because we didn't have television when I was a kid. Maybe it's because I spent most of my teenage years reading instead of dragging Main Street or sneaking out to illicit parties.

Whatever the reason, there is a surprising amount of stuff "everyone" knows that I don't. Not just who Snooki and Lady Gaga are, or whether the Kardashian sisters actually do anything or simply are famous for being famous. I'm talking about a more fundamental layer of shared cultural background that I seem to have missed.

Every now and then I am reminded of some odd bit of apparently common knowledge that isn't common for me. These are things everyone else seems to understand and take for granted, but I don't get. Either I've never had a chance to learn them, I've never needed the information, or—more likely—I never wanted to admit my ignorance by asking.

Now, for the first time ever, the depths of my ignorance are about to be revealed. You read it here first, folks. These are some of the things I don't know:

1. Jumping-rope rhymes. As far as I can remember, I have never chanted one in my life.

2. When a vehicle with a standard transmission won't start, and you push or pull it to get it moving and then start it by "popping the clutch," how exactly do you do that? Do you begin with the clutch in, then let it out at the crucial moment? Or do you push it in? Or push it in and then let it out? Confusion over this issue is probably the major reason I have always driven an automatic. At least I know exactly what to do if that ever fails to start: dig out my cell phone and call AAA.

3. How exactly do you play "Rock, Paper, Scissors?"

4. I've done enough hiking to be able to identify poison ivy. I'm rather too familiar with thistles and creeping Jenny, since the yard is full of them. But what precisely does a pot plant look like? Yes, I've seen pictures, but to the best of my knowledge I've never seen one in the flesh. (Of course, since I'm not sure what they look like, how would I know?) The stuff could be flourishing in the overgrown back half of our yard right this very minute, along with the thistles and that one tall asparagus plant. If anybody should ever discover marijuana growing wild back there, could I go to jail?

5. Did Gilligan and company ever get off that island? If so, how?

Instead of whining about it, of course, I could just look up some of this stuff online. Or maybe I should focus on all the other things I do know. Like what a "gerund" is, or a "stoat." Or what part of a car in England is called the "bonnet." Or what Harry Truman's middle initial stands for. I'd be perfectly willing to enlighten you on any of those important facts.

Right after you explain how to pop a clutch.

Categories: Remembering When, Words for Nerds | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Antique, Collectible, Or Just Plain Junk?

Posted on September 23, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

What's the difference between "antique" and "vintage" or "collectible?"

Oh, about a hundred bucks.

By the way, have you ever noticed that, even though most of us probably say it as "antique shop," most stores that sell old stuff call themselves "antiques shops?" That may be a distinction only an English major could love, but it does make a difference.

Here's why, if you want to get nitpicky about it (and of course editors always do—it's what we get paid the big bucks for). An "antique shop" would be a very old store that may or may not sell old stuff. An "antiques shop" would be a store that may or may not be old itself but that sells very old stuff.

Which means you'd better be careful to refer to the mature lady who is explaining the provenance of that 18th century chamber pot as an "antiques dealer" rather than an "antique dealer" if you want to get a decent deal.

But back to the definitions. It's really quite simple.

1. Any object that was made during my lifetime absolutely cannot be an "antique."

2. Any object that I remember being used in our household when I was a child is not an antique. It may, just barely, with caution, be referred to as "vintage."

3. Any object that I have personally used in my adult life is not "vintage." It might possibly be considered "collectible."

4. Calling a new object that is mass-produced in the millions a "collectible" does not automatically make it a potentially valuable investment. (Beanie Babies, anyone?)

5. Sometimes old junk is just old junk. Describing a 15-year-old computer as an "antique" will not help you get rid of it at a yard sale.

Suppose, however, an object of a certain age is in my possession and I want to sell it. If calling it "antique" rather than "vintage" will increase the price, I could live with that. If you're willing to buy it, you can call it whatever you like.

Just be sure your check is good. Otherwise you may discover a whole different meaning to the term "collectible."

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The Green Leaves of Summer

Posted on September 2, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

When did it get to be September? Apparently I wasn't looking. But I just turned my back for a few minutes, I swear. A week ago, we traded the 95-plus temperatures here for the 100-plus temperatures of southern New Mexico. It may be, as everyone there points out, a "dry heat," but it would be easier to live with if it would cool off at night enough to at least consider opening a window.

While we were gone, summer not only opened its windows, but carelessly left the back door ajar as well, and fall began creeping in. Or at least it started sniffing around the opening. It was chilly here this morning. Summer, still lush and arrogant with this year's abundant rain, just hasn't noticed yet that its days are growing shorter.

Neither have our tomato plants. It's been almost six weeks since they were stripped of all their leaves and most of their fruit by a hailstorm. They were nothing but battered stalks that obviously needed to be pulled up and tossed onto the compost pile.

Before I got around to cleaning up the mess the hail had made of them, though, the plants started to recover. A few leaves started growing back, and then a few more, and now the plants are almost as tall as they were before the hail, vibrant with new green leaves and covered with blossoms.

I don't have the heart to tell them that all their hard work is in vain. There's no way they can produce another crop before the first hard frost. It's like seeing someone get badly injured in a car accident, who survived surgery and has been working furiously at rehab and making a great recovery—only you've seen this movie before and you know they're going to walk out of the hospital and get run over by a garbage truck. I can see what's going to happen, but I can't do a thing to stop it.

Meanwhile, out on the deck, the two pots of pansies that also got hit by the hail are still blooming. The first hailstorm smashed them into a quarter of an inch of green mush. About half the plants didn't survive. Within a week, however, battered stems with a few tattered leaves had managed to stagger more or less upright and put out defiant buds. Two weeks later, the second hailstorm knocked them around. Beaten but unvanquished, they were blooming again within a few days. They are blooming still, their vivid yellow and purple making the most of every day between now and the first freeze.

In her first draft of Gone With the Wind, the name Margaret Mitchell chose for her heroine wasn't Scarlett O'Hara. It was Pansy. I can understand why.

Fall may be just around the corner, but its time hasn't quite come yet. It can wait its turn.

Categories: Living Consciously, Words for Nerds | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

Smokey’s Middle Name

Posted on August 26, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

It's an old joke, popular with second-grade comedians. "What is Smokey the Bear's middle name?"

The answer, of course, (provided here for those of you who haven't had your coffee yet or who don't remember second grade) is "The."

Except, really, it isn't.

When I mentioned Smokey in a recent column, I lumped him in with other famous characters who were "the" something-or-other. Jack the Ripper. Attila the Hun. Alexander the Great. Technically, he doesn't belong in such company.

Because, technically, "the" is not part of his name. There is a serious difference of opinion on this issue. People who were children in the 50's and early 60's think of him as "Smokey the Bear." People who were children in the 70's know him as "Smokey Bear." People who were children in the 90's think of him as "Smokey who?"

The confusion over his middle name is all due to the song. You know what song—the one that just started up in your brain.

"Smokey the Bear, Smokey the Bear.
Prowlin' and a growlin' and a sniffin' the air.
He can find a fire before it starts to flame.
That's why they call him Smokey,
That was how he got his name."

And that's only the chorus. There are four long verses. If you care to read or hear them all, you can find the whole thing here.

You may not remember the words, but I bet you recognize the tune. And it was the tune that caused the whole "the" problem. When Steve Nelson and Jack Rollins wrote the song in 1952, they had to put "the" in there to make the rhythm come out right. You'll notice they also needed to stick in a few extra syllables like "a growlin'" and "a sniffin.'" Apparently they came up with the melody first and needed to perform some linguistic gymnastics to make the lyrics fit.

As a result, every kid familiar with the song came to know America's most famous fire-fighter as Smokey the Bear. Dell Comics called him that during the 1950's and 1960's. Some of the official posters from that era even did the same.

His real name, however, has always been simply Smokey Bear. This is according to the official Smokey website at www.smokeybear.com. If you'd like to see some truly scary fire-prevention posters from the 1940's, go to the site and check out the "Smokey's Journey" section.

But whether we call him "Smokey Bear" or "Smokey the Bear," we can agree on one thing: Only we can prevent forest fires.

Categories: Just For Fun, Remembering When, Words for Nerds | Tags: , , , , , | 1 Comment

Facing Up to the Pansy

Posted on May 6, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

I'm not sure when or why the word pansy became an epithet, a scornful term for a man who didn't seem "manly" enough. Besides, as a feminist and a parent of both daughters and sons, I could—and do—certainly take issue with why being considered effeminate is an insult in the first place.

But that's a rant for a different day. For now let's talk about pansies.

I bought a bunch of them this week, which I plan to put outside if it ever warms up enough to actually plant something. I've liked them ever since I was little and first noticed, in my grandmother's bed of pansies beside the back step, how much their blossoms resembled vivid little faces.

In the hierarchy of the garden, pansies are members of the chorus rather than stars. They don't have the fragrance of roses. They aren't dramatic and showy like peonies or gladioli. They aren’t temperamental or difficult to grow.

What pansies do have is character. The heat doesn't appear to wilt them. The ever-encroaching creeping jenny doesn't defeat them. Even the ineptitude of my gardening doesn't seem to faze them. They just keep blooming, through spring hailstorms, summer heat, and even the first early frost.

According to Merriam Webster, the word pansy comes from the Latin “pensare.” It means to ponder, and it’s also the root of “pensive.”

The name suits these bright yellow and purple flowers. Blooming is their business, and they do it conscientiously. Pansy faces aren't smiling and carefree. They wear the focused, serious expressions of those with important jobs to do.

Actually, they remind me of another group that does important work. A group that certainly would be described as effeminate and could easily be called pansies if the word meant what it ought to mean. They're tough, they have character, and they hang in there even when conditions are less than ideal.

Surely, by now, you know who I'm talking about. Mothers.

Categories: Wild Things, Words for Nerds | Tags: , , , | 2 Comments

A Blessing of a Different Kind

Posted on February 4, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

One of my friends, who grew up a long way south of South Dakota, maintains that people here speak with a South Dakota accent. He claims that when he first moved here more than 30 years ago he could hear the accent, but by now, having adopted it himself, he doesn't notice it any more.

Well, duh. Of course he doesn't notice it. That's because we don't have an accent. Everybody (well, at least everybody from this part of the country) knows that. People from Georgia have accents. People from North Carolina do. People from Oklahoma. Even transplanted Texans like my friend have accents.

One of the regional idioms my friend finds amusing is "kind of different." It's a classic piece of understatement, perhaps arising from the German, Norwegian, and Swedish roots so many of us have. It's a useful shorthand for describing anyone who is, well, different.

"He's kind of different" can cover those who commit fashion blunders like wearing their jeans tucked into their cowboy boots. It can describe social nonconformists with six lip piercings. It can condemn serious misbehavior like not paying your property taxes or bullying your wife. It can poke holes in grand ideas like a belief that raising ostriches in South Dakota is a great way to get rich quick. It can even stretch to cover cases of genuine mental disturbance—the guy who sees jet trails as evidence of the government's plot to control the weather comes to mind.

Southerners accomplish a similar purpose with a different phrase (said with an accent, of course): "Bless her heart."

True, sometimes this is said with love and means exactly what it says. As in, "Bless her heart, she's going through a hard time these days."

But there's also a more nuanced version. "He must be proud of the tops of those cowboy boots, bless his heart." Or, "Bless her heart, with all those piercings I hope she never tries to drink out of a straw." "Or, "He really believes in those ostriches, bless his heart."

Even if their origins and accents may be different, these phrases have one thing in common. They are both delicately non-judgmental ways of expressing a strong judgment without actually having to say anything rude. Presumably, the ultimate graceful put-down would be to transcend geographic and linguistic boundaries and combine the two expressions. "Yep, she's kind of different—bless her heart."

Categories: Words for Nerds | 2 Comments

When It’s Springtime In Alaska . . .

Posted on November 12, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

. . . they may still be counting votes.

The ballots are still being counted in the Alaska Senate race. I already know, however, who really is winning. Or maybe who really is losing.

English teachers and editors.

After incumbent Senator Lisa Murkowski lost the Republican primary to Joe Miller, she close to run in the general election as a write-in candidate. Miller got some 82,000 votes, around 34% of the total. Over 92,000 voters, about 40%, cast write-in votes. Yes, there was a Democrat in the race as well. The one thing that's clear about the election results is that he lost with his 24%.

Presumably, most of the write-in votes are for Murkowski, which could make her the winner. But people could have voted for their ex-spouses, their former mayors, themselves, or their dogs. All 92,000 of the write-in ballots have to be counted, by hand. Observers for both candidates are looking over the counters' shoulders, eager to pounce on the smallest irregularities.

The Miller campaign, of course, has a strong incentive to throw out as many ballots as possible. They're challenging write-in votes on any pretext they can find. For all I know, that includes smudges, fingerprints, coloring outside the lines, or using the wrong writing implement. A permanent marker, maybe, or a "Passionate Petunia" lipstick, rather than a blue pen or that old-fashioned standby of standardized tests, the number 2 pencil.

Most of the challenges, though, are for spelling. Apparently some of them are based on trivial points like an "o" that could be taken for an "a" or the name's first letter in cursive but the rest in block letters. This seems clearly ridiculous.

But what about a scrawled vote for Mercowsky? Or McKovski? Or Morescowky? How close is close enough to be sure that the voter genuinely intended to vote for Murkowski? It's a legitimate if nitpicking question, one sure to keep flocks of lawyers busy for weeks.

In the meantime, three conclusions are obvious:

1. When your English teachers told you over and over again that spelling mattered, they were right.

2. Even in today's high-tech world, there are still times when good handwriting is important.

3. If you ever want to run as a write-in candidate, maybe you should consider changing your name to Smith.

Categories: Words for Nerds | Tags: , , , , , | 1 Comment

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