WTFriday? Hot and Bothered

May in Las Vegas is supposed to bring forth gloriously warm weather with light breezes that tickle one’s fancy and leave one with dreams of tropical getaways.   Not May of 2012.  This month has brought record high temps and an unwelcomed preview of the months to come. 

Anyone have some cheese because I feel a whine coming on?  Stay if you are suited-up with armor for such rants; else you might want to make your exit quickly.  And quietly please. We don’t want to disturb the others’ power naps.  

LIL Sis, is that you snoring?  WAKE UP.  I can’t do this alone.  I’m weak from the heat and tired from the fucking 30 and 40 mph wind gusts. Ever try walking against those types of gusts?  And I’m not exactly built to foster wind-worthy dynamics.  Imagine if you will, an elephant trying to pee in a thimble. 

Yea it’s like that.  Only without the pee.

I forget where I was going with that analogy.  So sue me.

WTFriday?  It’s the heat, I tell ya.

I don’t even want to think about the next power bill.  I may have to sell my body once again. 

Bwwwahhhhh.  What? 

It could happen.

Somebody out there lusts for will settle for my tired broke ass sexy senior stuff.  Don’t knock me until you’ve tried me. 

But I digress.   I felt like it was about time to interject that old reliable phrase.  It’s a lot like me, overused and under-appreciated.

If you’re feeling nauseous, just tilt your head back, apply a cool wash cloth, and think about cute little teddy bears or mountains of chocolate.  That doesn’t do it for me but I’m stretching to be nice here.

It’s the heat, I tell you.

It makes me think bad things.  Naughty things.  Unthinkable things.  Like vagina.  And Jennifer Lopez.  Notice I didn’t really put those two in the same sentence…vagina and JLo?  I thought that might be inappropriate.  Just because I may have been thinking about the two together.  Still, I’m nothing if not cognizant of my reading audience.  And fair.

So George Clooney.  And penis.  How’s that?  Again being respectful enough to separate the two by a period.

You see?  I told you I was fair.  Now everyone’s happy and I can go on with my fucking heat stroke.

The previous few paragraphs have absolutely no redeeming value, and yet I still have a reason to post. 

Why?

Because I’m in hell and I need the company. 

Thanks for taking this journey with me.  If you should desire to have further proof of my Hell, then turn on your oven, and stick your head in for a few seconds, until you build up a good sweat.  Then turn your blow dryer on high and point directly into your face for another few seconds.  After that, relax and enjoy those hallucinations.  If they don’t come right away, repeat the above process.  Have patience.  You will soon imagine freaky and wondrous things.

It was good for me.  Was it good for you?

Images from Google Images

Monday Listicles - Ten things a husband should do

Buuwwaaahhhh! 

Oh hello.  Don’t mind me.  I’m still freaking out over this week’s Monday Listicles subject. Thanks a lot, Stasha’s husband.  You succeeded in scrambling my brains.  What's left of them.

Uh, I don’t have a husband.  Uh, I have a wife.  Uh, does that make me the husband?  Uh, no.

So.

Questions. Hair-pulling.  Where’s my happy pills?   I.Am.Stressed.

But.

I am always up for a challenge!

So.

I’m listing.  That’s right.  Right along with you ladies who have husbands and actually know what you’re talking about.  And how am I going to approach this monumental writerly task? 

I’ll just make shit up.

So here goes…

*********

Ten Things MY Husband would do, IF I had a Husband...

(Title slightly altered to fit my particular situation. Or lack thereof)

• If I had a husband, he would Cook.

• If I had a husband, he would Clean.  The toilets. The windows. The baseboards. The floors. My car.

• If I had a husband, he would go to work and make enough money so I could stop looking for a freaking job.

• If I had a husband, he would rub my feet.  My wife will not do this.  I'm suffering.
  

• If I had a husband, he would wash his own damned stinky socks and underwear.  Yes, I was married to a man a hundred years ago, and can still smell the afterglow.

• If I had a husband, he would understand my need to eat chocolate and drink merlot while crying over the Grey’s Anatomy’s season finale.  In fact, he couldn’t have any of my chocolate, but I would share my wine and drippy tissues with him.  Yea, I have a big heart like that.

• If I had a husband, he would go kick some ass in whichever direction I pointed.  Cause he loves me.  And he’s all butch like that.  Come to think of it, my wife already does that.  Never mind.

• If I had a husband, he would sleep on the couch because I cannot stand the snores and the farts.  Seriously, mine are bad enough without adding testosteronic mutations (is that a thing?).

• If I had a husband, he would be kind, sharing, gentle and loving like my Dad.  Only not just like my Dad because that would be creepy.  But you get what I’m saying.  He would be a real gentleman. 

And finally…..

• If I had a husband, he would gladly consent to a sex-change operation.  Because I'm sure as hell not jumping the penis fence.
  

Oh.My.Goshness Batman!  This old broad is outta control!

Don’t blame me. 

Blame Stasha’s husband for coming up with the subject. 

Now go out there and have a super Monday.

I’m heading back to my corner, to lie in wait for next week’s Monday Listicles subject.   Go ahead.  Bring it!

 

Images from Google Images

WTFriday - Own It. Say It. Suck It Up.

I have stuff on my mind today.  WTFriday? 

Stuff other than sex.

What?  It could happen. 

The first thing on my mind:

Own it.  WTF does that mean?  I’m talking about writing.  Or sketching.  Or painting.  Any form of self-expressionism, really.

In my humble and highly unsolicited opinion, if you create it and you have the balls to put it out there, own it.   And don’t get your panties in a wad when someone has something to say about it.   If someone does come back at you with uninvited critique of which you may not agree or that makes you want to scoop out their eyeballs with a spoon…tell them.  You have a voice.  And by that I mean you have an “I don’t have to be squeaky-nice when responding to your comment because I fucking do not agree with you” kind of voice. 

Which leads me directly into the second thing on my mind:

Say it.  WTF does that mean?  It means use your voice.  Participate in meaningful and thought-provoking informational exchange and/or debate.  Critique others, but only when invited.  There are exceptions to this unofficial rule, of course:  For example, if both commenter and responder know each other’s preferences (to critique, not to critique, safe words, use of handcuffs, feathers etc…) then they can go at it like snickerdoodles in heat. Just don’t hurt the onlookers, ok?  My eyes bleed easily.

However.

Some of us (some of you I mean.  I’m just writing this and minding my own damned business.  Don’t give me a second thought, really) can’t keep our big mouths shut no matter what the subject and we are always right, aren’t we?  So of course we have to make our “rightness” known. 

Not necessarily.  There’s a line to be drawn, and if you must always be right, then you are stuck with drawing that line.  If you want any friends or followers, that is.  Or in my case, stalkers.  We all want them, don’t we?  I love my peeps.  But I am one smart cookie.  I know where and when to draw that line.

I don’t respond to a post with critique unless specifically asked for “writing critique”.  I go for the content, baby.  I read for the content.  I absorb your wisdom and wit like a sponge.  Why would I critique your writing when I am so entertained by your content?  I wouldn’t.  I just enjoy you, and my comments reflect that.  As my writerly friend Kimberly would so aptly put it, “You rock my face off”. 

You can’t put a value, especially a writing-critique value, on that sort of entertainment.  So don’t.  Just my advice.  Enjoy the blogs you read, and if you feel like expressing your pleasure, please do.  I get all tingly just thinking about it.  But critique when you know it is welcomed.  As for me?  Critique me anytime you want.  I can take it.  I have a special pillow that, when placed securely enough over my face, snuffs out all my screams.  It works for me.

I recently had a conversation with a friend/blogger who expressed disdain at a few comments she’d received on her blog.  Of course, I had to visit said post and see for myself.  Sure enough, there were some rough comments on there.   However, she had invited critique.  When I pointed that out to her, she responded that she really didn’t mean it that way. 

Uh, make it clear what you want, people.  If you say critique, then prepare to “duck and cover” because you’re gonna get critique.  The blogosphere is plentiful with brilliant (and some not so much brilliant as mercifully clueless) writers who are ready to pounce with their advice.   I mean, look at me, here I sit giving you my brilliant advice. 

You’re welcome!

Which leads me directly into my third thought:

Suck it up. WTF does that mean?  You put it out there.  You take the hits.  So lick your wounds and put some more out there.  Or hobble into the bushes never to be heard from again. 

A very important person in my writing life recently pointed out to me that my sketches were not professional enough to include in ePublishing of my written work.  Said important person knows her shit, so I listened and will not be using my sketches.  I knew I should have spent that money on art lessons instead of those fucking slot machines.  Did my witty-bitty feelings get hurt by her words?  Like a flaming sword through my heart.  Nah.  I was fine.  When I put my sketches out on my blog, I did not ask for critique; however, when I decided to ePublish, all bets were off.  I wanted to hear the truth.

Own It. Say It. Suck It Up.  Good advice?  You decide.  I leave you with a quote by Elbert Hubbard, an American writer, artist and philosopher who lived a way, long time ago: To avoid criticism, do nothing, say nothing, be nothing.   Sure puts it in perspective, doesn’t it?

****

That’s my story and I am sticking to it.   Wine at 5, 7, and 9 pm.  Film at eleven.

What The ?

(Image from Google Images)

My ABCs

This week I became the stalker of Ducky.  Ok that sounds weirder than it really is.  Let me back up just a step or two.  

Ducky is a blogger.  Hilarious blogger.  She’s a youngun, somewhere in her early 30s I think.  She visited my blog one day and I fell in bloggy love.  She’s way past funny; she’s a master at the humor craft, that one!  I’m in awe. 

OK enough gushing about Ducky.  But her website is called Batcrap Crazy.  I think that’s really all that needs to be said. 

Except.

I don’t normally blog on Wednesday, but I’m feeling especially generous with sharing myself today.  You lucky people!   However, I want to make it quick because I have homework, job hunting, exercise, shower, and finishing The Hunger Games to do today.   Yes, I’m probably the only person in the universe that has not finished said book yet.  So sue me.  I have to study and that requires a shitload of reading.  I get sick of reading.

Until I picked up The Hunger Games.  Oh my goshness!  I am so hooked.   We are going to see the movie Saturday and I cannot wait.

So back to today’s post.  I give you the ABC's of me. Stolen from Ducky who stole them from Donna. Um, just the context not the content. I kept most of the subjects, but also added a few of my own.  I'm a rebel like that. 

So here we go:

The ABCs of me

Age:  58  and somewhat comfortable in this age. I could do without the arthritis and occasional sneeze-piddles though.

Bedsize:   Queen.  Suits my lofty and pretentious attitude.

Chores that you hate:   Not enough room on here to list.  The one I hate the most is vacuuming.  Fucking Freaking hate it with a fucking freaking passion.  Fucking Freaking vacuuming.  I’m in a bad mood now.  Thanks.

Diapers:   Not yet.  Good thing, too, since I couldn’t afford them.

Essential start to my day:  Caffeine and a crane, to get my broke-ass outta bed.

Favorite Color:   RED.  Baby, I love me some red.  A curvaceous woman in a long red dress.  OY

Gold or Silver:  Yes and Yes.  Yes to Diamonds and sapphires too.   Hells yes.

Height:   5’6”.   I used to be 5’7 ½” but got in a rollover when I was 38.  Compression fractures.  Ouch. 

Instruments you play:  I can pick my nose rhythmically.  Does that count?   Oh yea, and I can whistle with my fingers.   I had a butch friend teach me that right after I came out.  So far it hasn’t gotten me laid.  Dang.

Job Title:  My job is looking for a job.  I am 2.5 years into it now and have reached the Expert Level.  Go ahead, test me.

Kids:  I have two sons, 38 and 29 and three grandsons, 6, 10 and 16.  Still waiting and hoping for a granddaughter.

Living:   Yes, thank God.  Considering the alternative.  I’m happy with my current status.  Alive.

Music:  My iPod has everything from hot Jennifer Lopez to Smokey Robinson and the Miracles to the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack.  I am a music fan of gargantuan proportions. 

Nicknames:  Terri, now.  Growing up it was Katie.  Or Shithead when my mom was drunk.

Own or Rent:   I own my soul.  I own my mistakes.  I own my opinions.  I own my successes.  You can’t rent that stuff people.

Pet Peeves:  Whiny bitches, liars, tailgaters, know-it-all’s.  Oh yea, and food-smackers.  Keep it shut Paaalllease.

Quote from movie or TV Show: "I like it a lot”  from Dumb and Dumber.  Don’t judge.   It totally fits in so many instances.  Think about it.

Righty or Lefty:   I’m always right.  If you don’t believe me, just ask me.  I’ll corroborate.

Siblings: The cutest little 4’11” Sissy you have ever seen.  She is freaking adorable. 

Time: - Need more.  Never get enough.  If only we could Clone time.  That would be awesome.

Underwear:  Yes, for cryin out loud.  And?  Sometimes Granny panties.  Shut up.  But.  I apologize for the visuals.  Send me your eye-doctor bill.

Vegetable you hate:   OKRA

What makes you run late:   Never EVER late.  That’s the one part of Type A personality I seem to have adopted.  Everything else gleans from my B side.  Thank God.

X-rays you've had:  You name it.  I’m 58.  Do the math.

Yummy food you make:  My family loves my mashed potatoes, gravy and biscuits and meat loaf.  I love it when I don’t have to cook.  I win most of the time.

Zoo animal:   Bengal Tiger.  Grrrrrr.  Fits my personality.  Or at least my “made-up” one.

So, what are the ABCs of you?  Hmmm?  I’m dying to know.  Give it up.

Image from Google Images

WTFriday - Follow Friday Faux Pas

If you’ve read me, you know that I have to include some flashback moments in every post and comment I make.  I try to relate my crazy life to others but fall short most of the time.  But not without a few carefully placed laughs, that’s for sure.  You gotta laugh right?   I do.

That being said, I grew up old school (because I’m old and stuff) and when she wasn’t drunk, my Mom was adamant about teaching me manners.  I know how to act around my elders (all two of them).   I know how to be in polite society, how to eat and drink properly, and even how to hold my tea cup.  I was taught to walk straight by walking around the house with a book on my head.  Sometimes I would even do that while reading a book.  Not the same book.  That would be impossible.  Try to stay with me, folks.

So I have manners.  When I had kids I tried to teach them manners, too.  Not the book on the head manners.  They were boys, and I spent most of my time and energy just trying to catch up with them and their antics.  I did teach them to be polite to their elders, hold doors and pull out chairs for the ladies, and generally, just be kind.   And they learned.  And they are.   Kind, that is.  And they always hold my door for me when the occasion arises.  Good boys!

Today, all those manners I learned seem to be moot, outdated and old-fashioned.  I am a woman of manners. But I am also a modern woman.  I thrive on change. Therefore, I needed me some new manners.

So.

Every Friday, I get on Twitter and show some love to my bloggy buddies.  What’s that got to do with manners?  Nothing really.  But I told you, I digress, and sometimes it’s ugly and not pertinent at all.  Just bear with me ‘um kay?

WTFriday?

There’s this thing on Twitter that people do, called Follow Friday.  What you do is, you type in the hashtag #FF and then proceed to add your favorite twitter friends as space allows.   And please, don’t ask me about hashtags.  I just know #FF is a hashtag and I don’t care what it means.   Anywho, for example, I might tweet the following:

#FF @northhorizon

My son’s gonna hate this, because that’s his Twitter name.  Bawwwaaahhh!

So I continue doing this until I’ve added all my friends.  I do this every single Friday.  It’s actually not even popular. Not many people do it anymore.  They’ve all gone on to the 21^st Century and other tweetie thingys.  Not me.  I like Follow Friday.  I’ll be doing Follow Friday until the Twitter people find out and take my handle away.  It could happen.  I don’t think Twitter is for old people.  But I’m sneaking in there and doing my Follow Friday as long as I can get by with it.   I’m cool like that.

So.

What’s my Faux Pas?   I’m so glad you asked.

My faux pas for Follow Friday when twittering or tweetering, or tweeting or twatting (no that can’t be right) or twittereeting (just pick one)  is that I always forget at least one important friend every Friday.

And?

Most times it’s either the lovely Ally at Just a Normal Mom or snake-charmer Arizona neighbor Sandy at Flying WG.  I’m sorry ladies.  I love you both.  I don’t know why I keep doing that.  I’ve actually forgotten Ally more times than Sandy, but today was Sandy’s turn. 

So how do I make up for this modern-day miss-manner catastrophe? 

I’m slick, that’s how.

When I figure out I forgot someone, I make a spectacle out of it by giving that person her very own #FF tweet, with a little paragraph on her awesomeness.  I have no idea if it works, but it’s all I got people.

I don’t want to be caught with my Miss Manners knickers down, so to speak. 

I’m nothing without my Manners.  Unless I have wine.  That trumps manners.

Thanks a lot Mom.  See what you caused?

So what’s your latest Faux Pas?   C’mon, you know you have one. Or two. Let it out.  Confession is good for the soul.

And while you’re at it, get on Twitter and follow @sandy_webb and @NormalMomAlly.  Why?  Because it’s Friday and I’m pretty sure it’s a thing.

 

Image from Google Images

Top Ten Reasons I'm Still Awake

It’s midnight and I just got back up.  I tried to go to bed at 10ish, but tossed and turned and fought with all 20 of my pillows.  It’s amazing what one’s brain can produce when  it’s rebelling from the “go to sleep now” command.  I’ve been known to finish a couple chapters of my book, write my grocery list and arrange my calendar to accommodate oil changes for my car for the next two years. Sometimes I even schedule appointments to get my cat shaved and groomed. And I don’t have a cat. Yea, I get a lot accomplished.  Only problem is, I completely forget everything once I get up. 

I have no trouble at all sleeping during the day as long as I’m sitting straight up in my easy chair.  I have some stellar naps in that chair.  Ah, The drool.  The dreams.  The numbness of the limbs.  The urgency to pee.  What more could anyone want?  I am living the dream, people.  Living the nightmare dream.

So, on to my list.  I’m all about making lists in my head, but let’s see how I do a little past midnight, sitting in my easy chair, wearing my horn-rimmed spectacles that are not strong enough, and sporting a tank top and Denver Broncos boxers.  I’m a fashion plate.  Don’t hate.

Oh yea, and I may or may not have had a wee bit of the grape.

Top Ten Reasons I am Still Awake

10.  I could not get comfortable.  I kept feeling things that were not there.  A bit like The Princess and the Pea.  Only lose the princess, add an old broad, and then the fact that I had to pee.

9.   Got up to pee, went back to bed, but my legs kept walking.  Yes, they were going 90 in the slow lane and no traffic cop in sight.  If only…

8.  After my legs slowed down to a tolerable speed where I wasn’t getting sheet-burn, I thought I’d drift off to sleep, but NO.   The whole traffic cop scenario entered my thoughts.  She was about 5’8” tall, long legs and tight uniform.  She was just about to arrest me for speeding with a shit-eating grin on my face when I had to pee again.  Damn.

7.   Got up to pee.  Went back to bed.  The hot lady cop was gone.  Damn.  The legs had stiffened up and were aching from all that freaking exercise.   I took a pain pill, which would make anyone else cut some serious ZZZzzz’s.  Not me.  I got the munchies.

6.  Got up.  Turned on the TV.  Got myself a small glass of skim milk and sipped it slowly while trying to find something funny in anything David Letterman had to say.  He just doesn’t do it for me.  Neither did the skim milk.  I toasted a pop tart and nibbled on that through the rest of David’s monologue.  I’m such a party girl.

5.  Went back to bed.  Actually drifted off to sleep when suddenly I couldn’t remember whether I had unplugged the toaster or not.  OCD is my friend, but that’s another story for another time.  So I got back up.  I checked the toaster, lined up the refrigerator magnets, and went back and checked the toaster one more time just to be sure.

4.  Went back to bed.  This time I tried a different position.  My legs have arthritis issues and often-times I can’t find a comfortable spot.  Reminds me of a dog turning in circles, round and round, until he finds the perfect spot to sleep…or poop depending on the situation.  Thank goodness that thought didn’t bring up any poop notions.  I did, however, have to go pee.  And then the circling, round and round.  I figured if I never found a good spot, maybe I’d just pass out from the dizziness. 

3.  Finally found the perfect spot, my legs did not ache, my mind was clear, the toaster was unplugged, and the pain killer kicked in.  For about a half hour, all was right with my sleepy world.  Then the sirens went by.  There must have been a fire, a high speed chase and a heart attack close by all at the same time.  There were sirens coming from all directions.  I covered my head with the pillow but it was too late.  I was awake. Again. 

2.  Sat up in bed, flipped on the light, found my text book, donned my reading glasses, and proceeded to administer sleeping aid the natural way.  By studying.  It worked, too, because within minutes I was snoring.   Sitting straight up.  I think that takes some talent. 

1.  The snoring woke me up.  I had a dry mouth.  I took a gulp of water.  I got choked and coughed and coughed and coughed.  Then I had to pee again.  On the way back from the bathroom, I made a detour to the kitchen to check the toaster and grabbed some crackers and a little more skim milk.  I sat down in my easy chair and here I sit.  The Late Late show with Chris Ferguson is on now.  He cracks me up.  So I gotta go finish watching him.   I’ll get to bed after that.  I promise.  Who knows, maybe I’ll dream about that hot lady cop…

 

Images from Google Images

WTFridaythe13th? I'm not skeered

Here it is, once again, Friday the 13^th.  This most unholy of holidays comes around at least once (and if we’re really unlucky, twice) a year.  I am not fond, nor am I frightened of Friday the 13^th.  Truth be told, every one of my days have been Friday the 13^th  worthy lately.  It seems like Jason has been following me around for so long, lurking in the dark and behind obstacles, he’s starting to feel like one of the family.  If he’d just show his face (cough cough) I’d ask him in for tea.   Laced of course, as I’m not one to be outdone by a dude with a mask and an attitude.

Don’t be frightened, however, as I’m not headed toward the dark side.   Unless, of course, my host looks like Morticia from The Adams Family.  Then where do I sign?  Lucky man, that Gomez!   Just visualizing him making tiny kisses up Morticia’s arm while speaking French in an American accent was a real turn on.  Not because I wanted Gomez to do that to me.  No, I wanted to BE Gomez!    

Gomez, aka  me:     Je t'aime belle femme. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

Morticia:               Oh Gomez….er I mean Terri! You rascal you!  More More ! 

Now where was I ?   Sorry, I went away for awhile.  Oh yes, Friday the 13th.  I was trying to make it a happy-memory day by fantasizing, which is my usual go-to-technique for happy memories.  That’s why I’m so good at making up stories…because I can fantasize like crazy.  Not much I can’t imagine if given the opportunity and the mood.  And sometimes a marital aid or two. 

Let’s just move on, shall we ?

As Friday the 13’s go, this one is not so bad.  I’ve had worse.  One year I was in a rollover in Utah with seven other people in a van, ended up in intensive care with compression fractures and was out of work for months.   A few years later, again on Friday the 13th, I was back in intensive care after having a blood pressure trauma, which is just shy of a stroke.  Don’t cry. I’m fine. But where were you back then, when I needed you ?  Hmm ? 

Yes folks, not a big fan of Friday the 13th.  But like I said before, I’m not afraid.  It’s just another day.   I just don’t go out in public, shop, work, exercise, walk under ladders, pet cats (any color), look in mirrors, step on cracks, play the lotto, or attempt to get frisky (don’t ask).  What ?  It doesn’t hurt to play it safe.  I also hide all sharp objects and lock up the knives, just in case someone goes all exorcist and needs validation.  Hell, I’m not even Catholic so leave me  out of your demon-extractions, thank you very much !

I’m just doing a little preventive Friday the 13th..ing.  Don’t judge.  It wouldn’t be unheard of.  Some people set up alarms along the perimeters of their homes, dig moats and fill them with paranha, wear garlic necklaces and bullet-proof vests, and even invite their in-laws for sleepovers.   Why the inlaws, you ask ?  Obvious.  So they’d have someone to throw on the lawn for a sacrifice, to keep the zombies and wolves at bay. 

OK, I reckon people don’t really do all those things in fear of Friday the 13th, but wouldn’t it really be cool if they did ?    I’d invite them to do all those things at my house, then I’d charge admission.  I’d be rich and have an excuse for an awesome party.

Any excuse for a party, right ?  And on the menu :  Pizza and wine for the live guests and worms and garlic martinis for the zombies.  Party Party !

See, I told you I have quite an imagination.   Having said that, I hope you have a lucky Friday the 13th, and I leave you with a bit of my really bad advice best poetry :

Beware of Jason, ladders and cats.

Stay out of dark alleys and don’t feed the bats.

Friday the 13th is just like any other day.

And if you want to press your luck, that’s ok.

But if you’re like me at home you will be hiding.

And into a wine-induced stupor you’ll be sliding.

Bring it, Friday the 13th cause I ain’t skeered.

I live in Las Vegas.  Nothing seems weird.

 

**Images from Google Images

WTFriday? Where's my eraser?

Life would be colorless and boring without descriptors, wouldn’t you agree?   Adjectives are sexy and we writers enjoy the abundance of choices available in our beautiful English language.   But what happens when a word is overused?   What happens when a word is misused?   Over and over again?    Thinking further, what happens when said overuse and misuse becomes the rule rather than the exception?  

Don’t you want to pour Drano in your ears?

Or maybe you’re not especially fond of bodily harm, so don’t you just want to erase the word from the English language?

Yeah.  Me too.  

Three words come to my mind that fit the descriptions of either overuse or misuse, and all three make me want to use that Drano or eraser in order to get rid of those ear-numbing words. 

The first word is AWESOME.  Everybody says it.  Everybody thinks that everybody else says it way too much.  Take yours truly, for example.  I am the AWESOME guru.  Keeper of the AWESOME.  A regular AWESOME Houdini, if you will.  I will produce that word under any and all circumstances.  I will make it fit, even when there’s not a speck of awesomeness to be found for miles. People have even politely pointed out to me that I use too much AWESOME.  Oh I heard them.  I just didn’t listen.  You see, back in the olden days, when I first found my AWESOME, we bonded in a most unique and intimate way.  I could never leave my AWESOME because then I’d just be plain OK.  AWESOME is so much better than OK.  Ever try to use the word OK to substitute for AWESOME?   That would not be OK!

So we’ll just let AWESOME have a pass shall we?  I can’t give it up yet.  I am hoarder of the AWESOME.  An AWESOME hoarder, if you will.

WTFriday?

I think I’ll just go on to the next word.

The second word is AMAZING.  Personally, I don’t use this word nearly as often as other people.  You know, because I already have my own word with which to annoy others.  I don’t need AMAZING.  Other people, however, make me freaking nuts with their overuse of AMAZING and their apparent lack of any other descriptive word that might fit.  Hell, I would lend them AWESOME if they’d just stop using AMAZING so often.  People?  Not everything is AMAZING!   Not everyone is AMAZING! And?  Just because your new puppy finally took a poop outside instead of on your Persian rug, that does not necessarily warrant an AMAZING.  You want to know what AMAZING is?   I’ll tell you.   AMAZING is winning the freaking lottery.  AMAZING is writing a best-selling novel.  AMAZING is getting your partner to agree to a threesome. Actually that’s not AMAZING - That would be a miracle.  (No she did not just say that!)

Ahem.  Let’s press on, shall we?

The third and final word is one that is used mostly by our youth.  And by youth I mean anyone younger than me. Uh, basically everyone.  I’ve been hearing it for a few years now, misused as a term of positivity.   The word to which I am referring is SWEET.   For those who don’t know, SWEET was not always used as an exclamation of glee just because someone showed up at a boring party with some weed.   No, seriously, SWEET was formerly used to indicate how sugar tastes.   Now, if one really wanted to stir the proverbial pot, one could say SWEET when eating something that tastes sweet, but not because it’s actually SWEET, but rather because it’s AWESOME.  That’s the only way I can figure to explain this whole mess.  You see, I really hate it when SWEET is misused.  To me, it’s like nails on a blackboard or popping pimples or picking one’s nose in public.  It grates on my nerves and makes me batshitcrazy.  (Props to Rachel for my new favorite word.)

So there you have it.  Three words that just shouldn’t be.   They are misused and overused and tired and we need some different words.  For example, try substituting a different but equally as effective word for AWESOME, AMAZING or SWEET every time.  Yes, you might need to actually use a dictionary or thesaurus.  It wouldn’t be unheard of.  In fact, it would be freaking AWESO….

Uh I mean wonderful.

And wouldn’t expanding your vocabulary impress your friends and family?  That would be freaking AMAZI…..

Uh I mean fabulous.

And afterwards you could all go out and get ice cream to celebrate!  That would be SWEE…

Uh I mean delicious.

WTFriday?

Actually, you know what?  It would be SWEET.  A freaking AWESOME and AMAZING kind of SWEET!  

But now that word FREAKING is starting to get on my nerves.

Where’s my Eraser?

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What overused and/or misused words get on your nerves?

(Images from Google Images)