Well summer is in full swing. How do I know? People keep asking me for directions. Never happens off season!
A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME
Was it Shakespeare who said, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet”? I wonder how many would stop to smell it if it were named skunk cabbage.
Most people don’t realize what an awesome responsibility it is to choose a name for someone or something. This has become evident to me as I listen to the Coast Guard channel on my boat radio. I’m pretty certain that the guy who thought he was being clever never believed he’d have to use the words “naked lady” and “is sinking” in the same sentence. Thank God the Coast Guard is staffed with well trained professionals or I could imagine them taking their time to aid a boat named AK-47 or Lucky Bastard.
Boat names say a lot about their owners. I pass one on the West Tisbury road that has been in dry dock for years, which is just as well, since it’s named M.V. Brew Crew. Manning the tiller under the influence is frowned upon these days. Joke names can get you into trouble too. I wonder how the congregation would feel if their minister named his boat Second Collection. You can always change the name of a boat, however, even though they say it is bad luck. My friend Jules bought a used boat named Brenna. He changed it to his wife’s name. He said it would have been bad luck not to.
Naming people should be a very serious business, since a name can shape a person’s entire future. Adolf was out of fashion for many years as you can well imagine. Jesus is popular in the Latin American countries but I don’t know of a single one in the English speaking world. Rhyming names should be forbidden by law. I recently read an article about a minister named Floyd Flake. As if Flake weren’t bad enough. I’m sure he became a minister because he felt that the only place people wouldn’t snicker was in a church. I went to school with a Donald McDonald. It could have been worse, I suppose. They might have named him Ronald. What do you name a kid if their last name is a first name? John Peter would be one. Then there are the parents that think a last name makes a sophisticated first name, like Smith Jones.
My friend Jonathan has been eternally grateful that when he came along his mother won the name game, otherwise he would have gone through life as Raoul. A little dramatic for day to day usage, don’t you think?
I don’t agree with giving a child a name with the intention of permanently using a nickname. A nickname should evolve naturally due to an outstanding trait (my brother’s flaming red hair garnered him “Carrot Top” in his youth and “Cherry” in High School) or because the birth name is too long or formal for a kid (so the nickname is something a slightly older sibling usually coins). I knew a John who was called Jack his whole life. I couldn’t figure out why you would give someone with a four-letter name a four-letter nickname. Of course everyone thought I was being picky. Then there are the Nadlers who named their son Charlie. When someone suggested they might want to name him Charles they replied, “That’s his nickname.”
The names of streets, geological formations and bodies of water can be just as vexing for me. Necks, for instance. There are lots of necks on the Island; Felix Neck, Starbuck’s Neck, Scrubby Neck, North Neck. I could go on. No one is able to tell me exactly what a neck is though. And what is a bottom? Waldron’s Bottom and Deep Bottom have me pondering.
You have to admit the people of Martha’s Vineyard do not have a lot of imagination when it comes to naming streets. A sense of humor but not imagination. When 911 went into effect there was a mass scurry to name all the streets, lanes and avenues that had up to now been known as the first right after the big oak, or the last left past the fishing shack or whatever. They tend to use the same names over and over, too. Herring Creek is popular. There is one in Edgartown and two in Tisbury. Meetinghouse? Three in Edgartown one in Chilmark. Church Street? That’s not fair. Every town in the country has one. After all, America was settled for religious freedom. My favorite? A toss up between Old Dirt Road and Goah Way.
Just like with people, the name of a street can shape a neighborhood’s fortunes. I understand it is hard to sell a house on Old Squaw Lane. I know I wouldn’t want to have that on my stationery. A town in Wisconsin has an Easy Street--might be nice to live there. Don’t think I’d care for Dirty Ankle Road in North Carolina. But for me, Waukesha, Michigan takes the cake, though, with Psycho Path. I have to say there are days...
The trouble with not naming streets as soon as they come into existence is that they develop names over time that mean something to some people but not to others. The Edgartown-Vineyard Haven Road (or the Vineyard Haven-Edgartown Road depending on which end you’re at) is a case in point. In Edgartown they call it the Vineyard Haven Road and in Vineyard Haven, well you get the idea. In a place where the average tourist asks the average Islander directions an average of 500 times a summer, this can get very confusing.
Then there are the streets that have several different names. There is a road in West Tisbury that goes from Scotchman’s Lane to North Road that is not very long but on the map it has three sections, each with a different name--South Road, State Road and North Road. Clevelandtown Road turns into Meshacket Road, but I’ve never been able to discern why, or maybe more important, where.
Most of the waterways on the Island have sensible names except for Lagoon Pond. Is it a lagoon or is it a pond? The great ponds are either named for the town they are closest to (with the exception of Tisbury Great Pond which is nearest to West Tisbury), or better yet have Wampanoag names. I think this is eminently appropriate even though it takes wash-ashores like me years to learn the pronunciation. Maybe that’s good though. Maybe you’re not a true Vineyarder until you can pronounce Sengekontacket, Wequobsque and Wasque correctly in a sentence.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
DON'T FORGET THE PRE-NUP
Once you've picked out that special someone and agreed on a date for the wedding, I suggest a pre-nup. If you follow my guidelines you'll either have a lifetime of bliss or you'll cancel the wedding.
ALWAYS PACK THE PRENUP
OR
DON’T LEAVE HOME WITHOUT IT
I’ve always maintained that a prenuptial agreement should govern one’s behavior during the marriage, not when it ends. I think people, except when the rich marry the poor, feel that it’s a bad omen to plan the divorce before the wedding has taken place. These days most people live together before they get married, so there shouldn’t be too many shocks. There is ample opportunity to decide what you will tolerate and what you will not.
My first suggestion is to sit down and write a list of things that are important to you. These things should be covered in the agreement. Partners will think about their beloved’s weight, hair length, what chores fall into each person’s job description, for instance, laundry, lawn mowing, changing diapers, etc. It would be nice to know just how many hours of T.V. sports your new wife is willing to put up with. Naming the kids will be important. Do not give up veto power or you could end up with a daughter named Spike or a son named Princess. Mother-in-law rules can be tricky. If she lives out of town, vacations and length of visits need to be in writing unless, of course, she is coming to help care for a new infant, in which case, if she’s willing to get up in the middle of the night she can stay as long as she wants. If she lives down the road and is willing to baby sit, suck it up and keep your mouth shut. With the cost of child care these days you may save enough for the kid’s college tuition.
One thing a groom-to-be should seriously consider is just how much crap he is willing to schlep to the beach. Some type of food and drink, surely, is a necessity. A cooler so large it needs wheels is not, no matter how many children you have. Speaking of kids, if they want it, they carry it. No exceptions. A small shovel, pail and towel should be adequate. After all they’ve got a beach and an ocean. What more do they need?
The mother of the bride is usually too busy planning the wedding of a lifetime to give her daughter practical advice. Or maybe she’s afraid that if she tells it like it is the kid’ll change her mind. This would be a disaster since the wedding will be her dream, just as her’s was her mother’s dream. Even though brides are starry eyed and “so in love”, they need to think about their future. I’m not talking alimony here, I’m talking about what will actually happen after the honeymoon. And honey it ain’t, as they say, a bed of roses. Those annoying little habits that used to be so cute will grate on your nerves after a while. Socks on the floor, snacking on ingredients meant for dinner and of course the toilet seat question, all need to be addressed in your prenup. Beer bellies, underwear full of holes, toenails that need clipping, shave-free weekends--need I go on? And all mother-in-law rules apply to both parties. And if you can’t cook and don’t intend to learn--put it in writing.
A well thought out prenup will stop 90% of marital arguments in their tracks. Copies of the document should be left where they can be easily referred to when an issue arises. Kitchen, bedroom, car, and for God’s sake, always pack one in your suitcase. Pointing out car rule number one, requiring him to stop for directions, could very well save your entire vacation.
After ten or fifteen years of marriage you may be tempted to revisit your prenup. I can’t state this strongly enough. Don’t. What do you think has provided these years of marital bliss? You don’t want to unleash the inner monster. You can add but never, never delete. Add, you say? Of course. People change and things crop up. Anything you knew before the marriage is off limits but new behaviors are fair game.
Did Lamby-pie get a dental implant that he sucks vigorously after meals to rid it of particulate matter? Did that last maternity leave turn into an endless vacation? When the children come along and start disturbing your formerly idyllic home life, by all means renegotiate but keep in mind that at this point your lists are apt to be lengthy.
Now that you think you’ve prepared the perfect prenup you’ve got to be wondering what happens, and it will happen, when a spouse turns into a louse and breaks a rule. Suppose that during your superbowl party, surrounded by all the guys that mean the most to you, the little woman (who is ticked off for some unknown reason) announces to everyone in ear shot that you are crappy in bed. (I have it on good authority that this is every male’s worst nightmare.) This is why you must include penalties in your document. Sanctions that will cause either mate to think twice before behaving badly.
Withholding sex is not an option. It’s too easy to get elsewhere. If I were going to lose, say, one month of restaurant meals, I would certainly reconsider any unpermitted action. Your document should include all your beloved’s favorite things. (For help with this go to www.prenup.com.)
I’m sure no judge would uphold this type of prenuptial agreement. However, it acts like a nuclear weapon. The deterrent you hope you never have to use.
ALWAYS PACK THE PRENUP
OR
DON’T LEAVE HOME WITHOUT IT
I’ve always maintained that a prenuptial agreement should govern one’s behavior during the marriage, not when it ends. I think people, except when the rich marry the poor, feel that it’s a bad omen to plan the divorce before the wedding has taken place. These days most people live together before they get married, so there shouldn’t be too many shocks. There is ample opportunity to decide what you will tolerate and what you will not.
My first suggestion is to sit down and write a list of things that are important to you. These things should be covered in the agreement. Partners will think about their beloved’s weight, hair length, what chores fall into each person’s job description, for instance, laundry, lawn mowing, changing diapers, etc. It would be nice to know just how many hours of T.V. sports your new wife is willing to put up with. Naming the kids will be important. Do not give up veto power or you could end up with a daughter named Spike or a son named Princess. Mother-in-law rules can be tricky. If she lives out of town, vacations and length of visits need to be in writing unless, of course, she is coming to help care for a new infant, in which case, if she’s willing to get up in the middle of the night she can stay as long as she wants. If she lives down the road and is willing to baby sit, suck it up and keep your mouth shut. With the cost of child care these days you may save enough for the kid’s college tuition.
One thing a groom-to-be should seriously consider is just how much crap he is willing to schlep to the beach. Some type of food and drink, surely, is a necessity. A cooler so large it needs wheels is not, no matter how many children you have. Speaking of kids, if they want it, they carry it. No exceptions. A small shovel, pail and towel should be adequate. After all they’ve got a beach and an ocean. What more do they need?
The mother of the bride is usually too busy planning the wedding of a lifetime to give her daughter practical advice. Or maybe she’s afraid that if she tells it like it is the kid’ll change her mind. This would be a disaster since the wedding will be her dream, just as her’s was her mother’s dream. Even though brides are starry eyed and “so in love”, they need to think about their future. I’m not talking alimony here, I’m talking about what will actually happen after the honeymoon. And honey it ain’t, as they say, a bed of roses. Those annoying little habits that used to be so cute will grate on your nerves after a while. Socks on the floor, snacking on ingredients meant for dinner and of course the toilet seat question, all need to be addressed in your prenup. Beer bellies, underwear full of holes, toenails that need clipping, shave-free weekends--need I go on? And all mother-in-law rules apply to both parties. And if you can’t cook and don’t intend to learn--put it in writing.
A well thought out prenup will stop 90% of marital arguments in their tracks. Copies of the document should be left where they can be easily referred to when an issue arises. Kitchen, bedroom, car, and for God’s sake, always pack one in your suitcase. Pointing out car rule number one, requiring him to stop for directions, could very well save your entire vacation.
After ten or fifteen years of marriage you may be tempted to revisit your prenup. I can’t state this strongly enough. Don’t. What do you think has provided these years of marital bliss? You don’t want to unleash the inner monster. You can add but never, never delete. Add, you say? Of course. People change and things crop up. Anything you knew before the marriage is off limits but new behaviors are fair game.
Did Lamby-pie get a dental implant that he sucks vigorously after meals to rid it of particulate matter? Did that last maternity leave turn into an endless vacation? When the children come along and start disturbing your formerly idyllic home life, by all means renegotiate but keep in mind that at this point your lists are apt to be lengthy.
Now that you think you’ve prepared the perfect prenup you’ve got to be wondering what happens, and it will happen, when a spouse turns into a louse and breaks a rule. Suppose that during your superbowl party, surrounded by all the guys that mean the most to you, the little woman (who is ticked off for some unknown reason) announces to everyone in ear shot that you are crappy in bed. (I have it on good authority that this is every male’s worst nightmare.) This is why you must include penalties in your document. Sanctions that will cause either mate to think twice before behaving badly.
Withholding sex is not an option. It’s too easy to get elsewhere. If I were going to lose, say, one month of restaurant meals, I would certainly reconsider any unpermitted action. Your document should include all your beloved’s favorite things. (For help with this go to www.prenup.com.)
I’m sure no judge would uphold this type of prenuptial agreement. However, it acts like a nuclear weapon. The deterrent you hope you never have to use.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
CHOOSING A MATE
My daughter is going to a wedding this weekend. It's her best friend from Kindergarden. I'm just hoping it doesn't give her any ideas!
CHOOSING A MATE
There would be far fewer divorces if women would take the time to find a suitable mate. The idea that a man can be ‘changed’ into the perfect husband is a fantasy of youth. First of all there is no such thing as a perfect husband. Second, it is impossible to retrain another human being after the age of three or so. The best thing to do is find someone whose mother has done all the work. As soon as you realize the guy you are dating has potential, insist on meeting his parents. Preferably on Sunday. Preferably when there is a professional sports game on. If the old man is splayed out on the couch with his hand stuck in the waist of his pants (or worse, lounging without pants) and loverboy’s momma is racing back and forth from the kitchen with snacks and beer; this is not the guy for you. If, however, papa bear turns off the TV when you arrive and momma bear is actually allowed to have her own opinions then you’re good to go. If baldness is an issue, you might take this opportunity to see a picture of the maternal grandfather.
If the visit was satisfactory and he is starting to look like serious boyfriend material your next task is to check out his living quarters. If he’s over twenty eight and still living with a couple of frat brothers in an apartment with a wide screen plasma TV, very little furniture and a refrigerator filled with beer--dump him. Your ovaries will shrivel up into raisins before Peter Pan is ready for a family.
On the other hand if his place is too tidy you could wind up spending the best years of your life with an obsessive compulsive who will want you to iron his boxer shorts. Look around carefully and ask if he has a cleaning lady. This would be good because if he is too busy or finds it too demeaning to clean his own toilet then it is probably a good bet he will not ask you to do it either. After all, you are looking for a mate who wants a partner not a maid or mother. So if this morning’s cereal bowl is the only thing in the sink, there’s one damp towel on the bathroom floor and a chinese take out box with something green and fuzzy is residing on a shelf in the fridge, things are looking good.
It’s a given that men don’t like change but that doesn’t mean they can’t live with it. How they live with it is what you should be interested in. If your significant other comes home after you just finished rearranging the furniture and demands that it be returned to the way he likes it you can do one of two things. You can tell him to live with it for one week. If he still hates it you’ll move it back. (By the end of the week he’ll be used to it.) Or you can move it back to prevent a week of pouting. If the second senario is the one most likely to happen then you better like your current hem line and hair cut because you’re going to have to live with them the rest of your married life.
Picking a compatible mate requires the careful analysis of your own likes and dislikes. Don’t like someone around 24/7? Make sure your guy has a hobby or two. Hate to cook? Find a guy who knows the difference between a colander and a sieve. Want children? Don’t marry an only child. They never learn to share. Love to read? The guy with nothing but MAD magazines on his bedside table won’t do. You need to have things in common, but not everything--how boring would that be? Dislike movies? Don’t marry a critic. Hate doing laundry? Don’t marry a guy who plays dirty, like a landscaper or mechanic. You get the idea. Think with your head, not your hormones. Choosing a man is easy. Choosing the right man takes time and effort but will be well worth it. Anyway, if the guy you thought was perfect for you turns out to be a stinker, you know what they say--the first time’s for practice.
CHOOSING A MATE
There would be far fewer divorces if women would take the time to find a suitable mate. The idea that a man can be ‘changed’ into the perfect husband is a fantasy of youth. First of all there is no such thing as a perfect husband. Second, it is impossible to retrain another human being after the age of three or so. The best thing to do is find someone whose mother has done all the work. As soon as you realize the guy you are dating has potential, insist on meeting his parents. Preferably on Sunday. Preferably when there is a professional sports game on. If the old man is splayed out on the couch with his hand stuck in the waist of his pants (or worse, lounging without pants) and loverboy’s momma is racing back and forth from the kitchen with snacks and beer; this is not the guy for you. If, however, papa bear turns off the TV when you arrive and momma bear is actually allowed to have her own opinions then you’re good to go. If baldness is an issue, you might take this opportunity to see a picture of the maternal grandfather.
If the visit was satisfactory and he is starting to look like serious boyfriend material your next task is to check out his living quarters. If he’s over twenty eight and still living with a couple of frat brothers in an apartment with a wide screen plasma TV, very little furniture and a refrigerator filled with beer--dump him. Your ovaries will shrivel up into raisins before Peter Pan is ready for a family.
On the other hand if his place is too tidy you could wind up spending the best years of your life with an obsessive compulsive who will want you to iron his boxer shorts. Look around carefully and ask if he has a cleaning lady. This would be good because if he is too busy or finds it too demeaning to clean his own toilet then it is probably a good bet he will not ask you to do it either. After all, you are looking for a mate who wants a partner not a maid or mother. So if this morning’s cereal bowl is the only thing in the sink, there’s one damp towel on the bathroom floor and a chinese take out box with something green and fuzzy is residing on a shelf in the fridge, things are looking good.
It’s a given that men don’t like change but that doesn’t mean they can’t live with it. How they live with it is what you should be interested in. If your significant other comes home after you just finished rearranging the furniture and demands that it be returned to the way he likes it you can do one of two things. You can tell him to live with it for one week. If he still hates it you’ll move it back. (By the end of the week he’ll be used to it.) Or you can move it back to prevent a week of pouting. If the second senario is the one most likely to happen then you better like your current hem line and hair cut because you’re going to have to live with them the rest of your married life.
Picking a compatible mate requires the careful analysis of your own likes and dislikes. Don’t like someone around 24/7? Make sure your guy has a hobby or two. Hate to cook? Find a guy who knows the difference between a colander and a sieve. Want children? Don’t marry an only child. They never learn to share. Love to read? The guy with nothing but MAD magazines on his bedside table won’t do. You need to have things in common, but not everything--how boring would that be? Dislike movies? Don’t marry a critic. Hate doing laundry? Don’t marry a guy who plays dirty, like a landscaper or mechanic. You get the idea. Think with your head, not your hormones. Choosing a man is easy. Choosing the right man takes time and effort but will be well worth it. Anyway, if the guy you thought was perfect for you turns out to be a stinker, you know what they say--the first time’s for practice.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
BOOTY AND THE BEAST
Well it's finally summer here on Martha's Vineyard. The beach is beckoning, the boat"s in the water and the calendar is filling up with visitors. We live for this time of year!
BOOTY AND THE BEAST
It’s the kind of thing you would never expect to happen twice. One day last September after Labor Day, when the summer people ceded the Island back to the year-rounders, my friend Jules and I went for a little R and R at South Beach. At lunch time Jules pulled out a perfectly constructed Italian hoagy. Having just taken a second delicious bite, out of the blue--or rather over his left shoulder--a seagull swooped in and grabbed Jules’s sandwich. You would think this a once in a lifetime event, no? Well, actually, no. It happened again this week. Same place, same Italian hoagy, and for all we know, the same seagull. The bird consumed everything but the tomato.
We’ve all laughed heartily at these precocious birds appropriating other people’s lunches, but it’s not so funny when it’s your own. These gulls, protected by the state in order to keep the beaches clean, have developed the perfect scam. The only time they eat what God intended is when the sunbathers go home for the season. And then only if they can’t find a convenient dumpster. I know a woman who feeds them whole wheat bread because she thinks they eat too much junk food.
I think Jules is a target because he tends to eat around 11:30 (a hold over from his college days when he was too tired to go for breakfast). The birds are hungry, not having eaten since the previous day’s lunch, so he is the first victim of the day. Apparently people on the beach are not the only prey for these petty thieves. The very next morning after this avian piracy took place, there was an item on the TV news about a seagull that hangs around a 7-11 store somewhere in New Hampshire and stages a daily raid in the chip aisle. He always takes Doritos.
These events started me thinking about larceny in the animal kingdom. With the possible exception of vermin and birds that steal objects for their nests, most animal burglary is restricted to food. I’ve learned, for example, never to leave a tray of hors d’oevres unattended on the coffee table awaiting guests if the dog is in the house. My particular dog has what they euphemistically call the “wolf gene” and would gleefully eat himself to death if left to his own devices. You can imagine the begging that goes on in my house. I’ve seen him sniff all over a bag of garbage until he finds something appealing, then bite a hole just large enough to extract the coveted morsel. I should be grateful he’s so neat, I suppose. I used to keep a candy dish filled with Hershey Kisses in my living room for guests until I came home one day to a little pile of aluminum foil on the rug, more of which I’m sure he ingested.
When I was a kid (my parents being products of the Depression) we had a quarter of an acre of land that we gardened each summer. I can’t count the number of times my father would announce that something was ready to be harvested then go out the next day to find whatever it was decimated. One year a herd of deer came through and systematically demolished our sweet corn crop. Something with hands--a groundhog? possum?--pulled out every last beet in the row, carefully laying the greens aside. To be fair to the animals my father always maintained it was one of the neighbors.
We wouldn’t have minded sharing our crops if they just took--say--one melon and ate the whole thing, but for some reason they seemed to enjoy taking a bite out of each one. I guess it’s kind of like the people who stick their finger in the bottom of a chocolate to see what the filling is. If it’s maple cream they put it back into the box right side up. Maybe the melons weren’t ripe enough. My brother and I knew why the animals never touched a zucchini.
Jules and I are planning another trip to the beach. This time he’s taking a tomato sandwich.
BOOTY AND THE BEAST
It’s the kind of thing you would never expect to happen twice. One day last September after Labor Day, when the summer people ceded the Island back to the year-rounders, my friend Jules and I went for a little R and R at South Beach. At lunch time Jules pulled out a perfectly constructed Italian hoagy. Having just taken a second delicious bite, out of the blue--or rather over his left shoulder--a seagull swooped in and grabbed Jules’s sandwich. You would think this a once in a lifetime event, no? Well, actually, no. It happened again this week. Same place, same Italian hoagy, and for all we know, the same seagull. The bird consumed everything but the tomato.
We’ve all laughed heartily at these precocious birds appropriating other people’s lunches, but it’s not so funny when it’s your own. These gulls, protected by the state in order to keep the beaches clean, have developed the perfect scam. The only time they eat what God intended is when the sunbathers go home for the season. And then only if they can’t find a convenient dumpster. I know a woman who feeds them whole wheat bread because she thinks they eat too much junk food.
I think Jules is a target because he tends to eat around 11:30 (a hold over from his college days when he was too tired to go for breakfast). The birds are hungry, not having eaten since the previous day’s lunch, so he is the first victim of the day. Apparently people on the beach are not the only prey for these petty thieves. The very next morning after this avian piracy took place, there was an item on the TV news about a seagull that hangs around a 7-11 store somewhere in New Hampshire and stages a daily raid in the chip aisle. He always takes Doritos.
These events started me thinking about larceny in the animal kingdom. With the possible exception of vermin and birds that steal objects for their nests, most animal burglary is restricted to food. I’ve learned, for example, never to leave a tray of hors d’oevres unattended on the coffee table awaiting guests if the dog is in the house. My particular dog has what they euphemistically call the “wolf gene” and would gleefully eat himself to death if left to his own devices. You can imagine the begging that goes on in my house. I’ve seen him sniff all over a bag of garbage until he finds something appealing, then bite a hole just large enough to extract the coveted morsel. I should be grateful he’s so neat, I suppose. I used to keep a candy dish filled with Hershey Kisses in my living room for guests until I came home one day to a little pile of aluminum foil on the rug, more of which I’m sure he ingested.
When I was a kid (my parents being products of the Depression) we had a quarter of an acre of land that we gardened each summer. I can’t count the number of times my father would announce that something was ready to be harvested then go out the next day to find whatever it was decimated. One year a herd of deer came through and systematically demolished our sweet corn crop. Something with hands--a groundhog? possum?--pulled out every last beet in the row, carefully laying the greens aside. To be fair to the animals my father always maintained it was one of the neighbors.
We wouldn’t have minded sharing our crops if they just took--say--one melon and ate the whole thing, but for some reason they seemed to enjoy taking a bite out of each one. I guess it’s kind of like the people who stick their finger in the bottom of a chocolate to see what the filling is. If it’s maple cream they put it back into the box right side up. Maybe the melons weren’t ripe enough. My brother and I knew why the animals never touched a zucchini.
Jules and I are planning another trip to the beach. This time he’s taking a tomato sandwich.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
EUPHEMISMS
Well, we are back on the Vineyard. My craving to shop has been quelled for a while.
EUPHEMISMS
It seems to me we’ve gotten so politically correct we can no longer use meaningful words. Take dead. Or died. No one is willing to describe anyone as having died, or being dead. They are “lost” or “gone”. They’ve “passed on” or are “no longer with us”, or in heaven (yuk, yuk). Come on. Dead is dead. Whose feelings are we protecting here? They don’t care how we describe them. They’re dead.
How about needing a toilet? There’s the “powder room” (which has taken on a whole new meaning with the widespread use of cocaine) or as my father used to say “going to see a man about a dog” or a “horse” I forget which. There’s the ladies room, or as they say in England the water closet or loo--depending upon what class you were born to. Of course in order to not be horrified when your husband excuses himself from the holiday table surrounded by your huge extended family, you’d have to know that John Crapper invented the flush toilet. Hopefully he calls it the john and not the...well, you know. In theme restaurants there might be buoys and gulls, pointers and setters, oh--the cleverness can be endless. It might also end up causing an accident if you don’t know where to go...to go.
You used to be able to describe someone as short. Some where along the line that became an insult so ‘diminutive’ became the word. Now it’s vertically challenged as though being short were a handicap like being blind or deaf. And when was the last time you heard those words used? Now it’s visually or hearing impaired. If I were deaf as a doornail I think I’d be insulted if someone said my hearing was impaired--which according to the dictionary means spoiled, injured or hurt. I don’t know where they came up with challenged either. It means to dare, provoke or threaten. Does that mean if you are follicly challenged you have been threatened by hair?
Human behavior changes word usage and therefore requires the formation of euphemisms in polite or politically correct society. If one were to take a time machine back to Victorian England the language wouldn’t remotely resemble the English of today. If the word you want to use has a “connotation” then an alternative must be found. Take drunk for instance. “They had drunk their fill.” It used to be the perfectly acceptable past participle of drink. Even the dictionary admits it has been removed from polite society. You can’t even call a drunk a drunk any more. You can say three sheets to the wind, pie eyed, stoned, intoxicated, impaired, inebriated, befuddled, hammered, tipsy, feeling no pain, out of it, smashed, blotto, pissed, wasted, seeing double, gassed, plowed, under the table, tanked, wiped out, soused, high, pickled, stewed, tight, plastered, or high as a kite among many others. The police won’t even use drunk. It’s DUI or DWI which uses the aforementioned intoxicated and impaired.
I would like to point out here that there are only three antonyms for drunk--sober, steady, and temperate. That makes me thing that one spends a lot more time describing drunks than nondrunks.
There are a few more that describe the habitually drunk. Sot, wino, lush, alky, barfly--but apparently it is still okay to call them drunks even in polite society as long as they aren’t relatives. Then, of course, they are said to have issues.
Fat is a word that is now only used to be mean. In fact the medical term for fat, obese, has also become ear grinding. Most euphemisms for fat are in fact not nice: lard ass, corpulent, potbellied, portly, puffy, inflated, lumpish, and fat as a pig. Even well fed has a “connotation”. I had a girlfriend in college who always claimed she was born when meat was cheap. Pleasantly plump, big, stocky, large boned, Rubenesque, zaftig-no, no, no there are no good euphemisms for fat. I would therefore like to suggest anticachectic. That should cover it.
When I was a little girl the term crippled was accepted and described any number of misfortunes from birth defects to accidents. We went from that to handicapped. In the 70’s along with every other disenfranchised group in America they became militantly disabled. Even that has a “connotation” so we’ve moved on to challenged, which covers just about every one alive. In the summers when all the galleries are open I feel distinctly art challenged. Can’t swim? Can’t dance? Can’t sing? You are challenged.
I have always had a hard time with what used to be the euphemism for homosexuals. Even though gay is what they have chosen for themselves, I always thought a term that meant happy, joyful, cheerful, light-hearted, etc. was an improvement over queer but, the definition in Webster’s Unabridged says the term gay “has had various senses dealing with sexual conduct since the 17th century.” Prostitutes were called gay women, womanizers were gay men and a brothel was a gay house. The fourth definition of gay is: licentious, dissipated and wanton. I think if I were gay I would want a revote. There must be a better word. And as a heterosexual I’m glad the sobriquet “breeder” hasn’t come into wide use.
I guess people should be able to be called whatever they choose but I wish they would make a decision and stick to it. We’ve gone from Indians to Native Americans and back to Indians. It seems they didn’t like being confused with people from India but then someone figured out Indian stood for indigenous so it was okay again. Blacks have gone from being Negro to colored to black to African American and back to black. If you were born in America we can call you black but if you were born in Africa we should call you African American. I don’t want to be referred to as white any more. Please call me a Northern European American or maybe an Anglo Saxon Protestant American. White is just too pedestrian. After all, we have Italian Americans, Polish Americans, Haitian Americans, the list is endless. It used to be people emigrated here because they wanted, would be thrilled in fact, to be plain old Americans.
I suppose as the English language mutates into a weapon for insulting and hurting people euphemisms become necessary. My personal favorite? Adult Entertainment Industry. Makes what some might call sleazy comparable to a NASDAQ listing.
EUPHEMISMS
It seems to me we’ve gotten so politically correct we can no longer use meaningful words. Take dead. Or died. No one is willing to describe anyone as having died, or being dead. They are “lost” or “gone”. They’ve “passed on” or are “no longer with us”, or in heaven (yuk, yuk). Come on. Dead is dead. Whose feelings are we protecting here? They don’t care how we describe them. They’re dead.
How about needing a toilet? There’s the “powder room” (which has taken on a whole new meaning with the widespread use of cocaine) or as my father used to say “going to see a man about a dog” or a “horse” I forget which. There’s the ladies room, or as they say in England the water closet or loo--depending upon what class you were born to. Of course in order to not be horrified when your husband excuses himself from the holiday table surrounded by your huge extended family, you’d have to know that John Crapper invented the flush toilet. Hopefully he calls it the john and not the...well, you know. In theme restaurants there might be buoys and gulls, pointers and setters, oh--the cleverness can be endless. It might also end up causing an accident if you don’t know where to go...to go.
You used to be able to describe someone as short. Some where along the line that became an insult so ‘diminutive’ became the word. Now it’s vertically challenged as though being short were a handicap like being blind or deaf. And when was the last time you heard those words used? Now it’s visually or hearing impaired. If I were deaf as a doornail I think I’d be insulted if someone said my hearing was impaired--which according to the dictionary means spoiled, injured or hurt. I don’t know where they came up with challenged either. It means to dare, provoke or threaten. Does that mean if you are follicly challenged you have been threatened by hair?
Human behavior changes word usage and therefore requires the formation of euphemisms in polite or politically correct society. If one were to take a time machine back to Victorian England the language wouldn’t remotely resemble the English of today. If the word you want to use has a “connotation” then an alternative must be found. Take drunk for instance. “They had drunk their fill.” It used to be the perfectly acceptable past participle of drink. Even the dictionary admits it has been removed from polite society. You can’t even call a drunk a drunk any more. You can say three sheets to the wind, pie eyed, stoned, intoxicated, impaired, inebriated, befuddled, hammered, tipsy, feeling no pain, out of it, smashed, blotto, pissed, wasted, seeing double, gassed, plowed, under the table, tanked, wiped out, soused, high, pickled, stewed, tight, plastered, or high as a kite among many others. The police won’t even use drunk. It’s DUI or DWI which uses the aforementioned intoxicated and impaired.
I would like to point out here that there are only three antonyms for drunk--sober, steady, and temperate. That makes me thing that one spends a lot more time describing drunks than nondrunks.
There are a few more that describe the habitually drunk. Sot, wino, lush, alky, barfly--but apparently it is still okay to call them drunks even in polite society as long as they aren’t relatives. Then, of course, they are said to have issues.
Fat is a word that is now only used to be mean. In fact the medical term for fat, obese, has also become ear grinding. Most euphemisms for fat are in fact not nice: lard ass, corpulent, potbellied, portly, puffy, inflated, lumpish, and fat as a pig. Even well fed has a “connotation”. I had a girlfriend in college who always claimed she was born when meat was cheap. Pleasantly plump, big, stocky, large boned, Rubenesque, zaftig-no, no, no there are no good euphemisms for fat. I would therefore like to suggest anticachectic. That should cover it.
When I was a little girl the term crippled was accepted and described any number of misfortunes from birth defects to accidents. We went from that to handicapped. In the 70’s along with every other disenfranchised group in America they became militantly disabled. Even that has a “connotation” so we’ve moved on to challenged, which covers just about every one alive. In the summers when all the galleries are open I feel distinctly art challenged. Can’t swim? Can’t dance? Can’t sing? You are challenged.
I have always had a hard time with what used to be the euphemism for homosexuals. Even though gay is what they have chosen for themselves, I always thought a term that meant happy, joyful, cheerful, light-hearted, etc. was an improvement over queer but, the definition in Webster’s Unabridged says the term gay “has had various senses dealing with sexual conduct since the 17th century.” Prostitutes were called gay women, womanizers were gay men and a brothel was a gay house. The fourth definition of gay is: licentious, dissipated and wanton. I think if I were gay I would want a revote. There must be a better word. And as a heterosexual I’m glad the sobriquet “breeder” hasn’t come into wide use.
I guess people should be able to be called whatever they choose but I wish they would make a decision and stick to it. We’ve gone from Indians to Native Americans and back to Indians. It seems they didn’t like being confused with people from India but then someone figured out Indian stood for indigenous so it was okay again. Blacks have gone from being Negro to colored to black to African American and back to black. If you were born in America we can call you black but if you were born in Africa we should call you African American. I don’t want to be referred to as white any more. Please call me a Northern European American or maybe an Anglo Saxon Protestant American. White is just too pedestrian. After all, we have Italian Americans, Polish Americans, Haitian Americans, the list is endless. It used to be people emigrated here because they wanted, would be thrilled in fact, to be plain old Americans.
I suppose as the English language mutates into a weapon for insulting and hurting people euphemisms become necessary. My personal favorite? Adult Entertainment Industry. Makes what some might call sleazy comparable to a NASDAQ listing.
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