Where Words Go To Die

The other day I realized there are words and phrases I haven’t heard in years. I have become convinced there is a place where words go when nobody uses them anymore. Not a dictionary. No, no… that’s too tidy. I think they go to a retirement community. A quiet little place where all the words that were once popular sit around wondering what happened.

When was the last time somebody told you to skedaddle? Or said something was far out? What happened to groovy? That was a perfectly good word. It had a job. It served a purpose. And let’s not forget radical. For a while, that word was carrying an entire generation on its back.

Then the 90s showed up with da bomb, talk to the hand, all that and a bag of chips, whatever, and as if. Somehow we all survived that phase and thought it sounded completely normal.

At what point did gee whiz, gadzooks, balderdash, kerfuffle, and cattywampus quietly pack their bags and leave? Those weren’t just words. They had personality. They made some one that said it seem cool… I think.

Nobody announces when they’re over. One day everybody is saying something and then, without warning, they stop. .

That’s neat.

That’s swell.

Far out.

Radical.

Da bomb.

Narly.

Epic.

Fire.

No cap.

Rizz.

Each generation gets its turn, and the older words simply fade into the background. I suppose that’s how language works, but I kind of miss the old ones. You could tell what decade someone grew up in just by listening to them talk.

Nowadays half the slang sounds like somebody spilled Scrabble tiles on the floor where the letters spell out “Skibidi” and said, ‘Yep, that’s a word now!
Maybe that’s why I like old sayings. They’re little time capsules. Tiny reminders of another era, and while I understand that language changes, I still think we should bring a few of these words back. The world could use a little more skedaddle, a little more balderdash, and maybe even the occasional gee whiz. And what’s this 6-7 bullshit?

So... now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go yell horsefeathers at something and try to bring it back.

One of These Things Is Not Like the Others

The other day I wrote a blog about how my writing hut has basically turned into a craft closet. Well, today I noticed something else. My library has musical instruments in it.

Now, in my former early learning director brain, this is all wrong. Libraries are for books. Musical instruments belong in a music room. You don’t put a loud center next to a quiet center! Somewhere, my old classroom setup skills are having an anxiety attack.

Then my ADHD brain immediately started singing the old Sesame Street song: “One of these things is not like the others…”

Sitting in my library are my cello and my violin. Up until a few weeks ago, my stereo turntable was in there too. I moved the turntable, but all the albums are still sitting on the bottom shelf.

Then I got to thinking… what difference does it make? It’s just me and Dennis living here. If I decide to play the violin in the library, who exactly am I going to interrupt? No one else is in there reading anyway. And honestly, I mainly keep the cello propped up because it looks pretty in the room. Can you say "Eccentric"?  Can I spell Eccentric?

Apparently, I’ve reached the age where I decorate with musical instruments. And why not? A library should be a place that makes you happy. If books, albums, a cello, and a violin all make me smile, then they belong together. Even my grandkids arts supplies are in a box in there!

Maybe my house doesn’t make sense by traditional standards. Maybe my writing hut is a craft closet and my library is part reading room, part music room, and part decorating experiment. But that’s okay.

Because at this point in my life, it’s all about atmosphere and little pleasures. If I want a cello in my library because it looks cozy and makes me happy, then the cello stays.

Besides, I kind of like living in a house where one of these things is not like the others.

No RSVP to the Pity Party

I’ve noticed something about pity parties. They never seem to accomplish anything. Nobody wakes up one morning and says, “You know what changed my life? Feeling sorry for myself for three straight days.”

Life isn’t fair. Sometimes it kicks you in the teeth, steals your lunch money, and then sends you the bill. But sitting in the corner throwing yourself a pity party doesn’t make life apologize. It just wastes time you could’ve spent figuring out your next move.

Feel your feelings. Throw yourself a five-minute pity party if you need to. Eat the cookie. Cry in the shower. Yell at the steering wheel. Then clean yourself up, put your grown-up pants back on, and get moving. Problems don’t care how sad you are. They only respond to action.

And here’s the thing… nobody enjoys attending someone else’s pity party either. If all you ever serve is complaints, eventually people quit accepting the invitation.

Life rewards resilience, not RSVP cards to the Pity Party. Besides… if you’re going to host a party, at least have chips and queso.

The Emotional Cost of Being in Charge

For 34 years, I was a daycare director/owner. Somewhere along the way, I developed skin so thick it could probably survive re-entry from space. You almost have to.

When you’re responsible for hundreds of children, dozens of employees, parents, payroll, licensing, food programs, staffing shortages, budgets, and making sure the whole place doesn’t fall apart before noon, you don’t have the luxury of getting emotionally invested in every problem that comes your way.

And trust me, there was always a problem.

Every day brought a new crisis. Someone couldn’t come to work because their babysitter quit. Someone’s car wouldn’t start. Someone’s cousin’s boyfriend’s dog had an emergency. Someone’s kid was sick. Someone’s check was in the mail. Someone forgot they didn’t pay and bought new shoes. Someone misunderstood. Someone swore they were told something that nobody actually told them.

And somehow, every one of those problems landed on my desk.

That’s the part people don’t understand about being the person in charge. You’re carrying the weight of the entire operation while everyone else sees you as their secretary, therapist, scheduler, complaint department, and miracle worker.

After a while, you stop reacting emotionally. Not because you’re heartless. Not because you don’t care. But because if you felt every hardship, every excuse, every complaint, and every crisis, you’d never survive the week.

You become practical. You stop asking, “How do you feel?” and start asking, “Okay, what’s the plan?” Feelings take a back seat because the bus still has to keep moving.

What I’ve realized after being retired for four weeks is that maybe I wasn’t as uncaring as I thought. Maybe I was just carrying too much responsibility to have room for everyone else’s emotions too.

Because lately, I’ve found myself actually feeling sorry for people again. Not solving their problems. Not figuring out how to make it work. Just feeling empathy. It’s the strangest thing. Maybe carrying the world on your shoulders for 34 years leaves very little room for feelings. Or maybe my empathy retired before I did and has finally returned from a four-week cruise.

Either way, it’s nice to see it again. Although let’s not get carried away.

If you call me tomorrow and tell me you’re late because a squirrel stole your car keys and Mercury is in retrograde, I’m still probably going to ask what your backup plan is. Some habits die hard. 😆

Your Emergency Is Not My Speed Limit! Back Off, NASCAR 🚗😂

The other day I was driving into town when I glanced in my rearview mirror and discovered a car practically on my bumper.

There are very few things in life that unite people from all walks of life quite like being tailgated. I don’t care who you are—we can all agree that the person riding six inches off your ass is annoying.

What exactly is the goal? Do they think if they get close enough I’ll suddenly discover a hidden gear? Because I hate to disappoint them, but my car doesn’t have a turbo button.

I checked my speedometer and I was already going over the speed limit. So why are you flying up behind me like that? If you’re transporting a kidney across state lines, I can understand the urgency. But if you’re just trying to beat me to the next red light, I have some bad news for you.

Sir, you need to cool your jets.

And let’s be honest—the closer you get to my bumper, the lighter my foot gets on the gas pedal. At this point, we’re both going to get beaten to the intersection by the turtle crawling out of the ditch.

Then they finally whip around and pass, giving me the glare like I’m the problem. Buddy, you should probably just be grateful I didn’t mistake your tailgating for a request to test my brakes.

At this point in life, I’ve stopped participating in other people’s emergencies. If you’re in that much of a hurry, pass me. Otherwise, plan on going slower then we both want to, cause I got all day!