Excommunicated from my Lexicon

You know what word really bothers me? Journey. As in, this journey has really taught me a lot about myself. It's even more irritating when used in conjunction with the adjective 'amazing.' As in, this has been an amazing journey. Really? Has it? Unless you are referring to the 1980s classic rock band or an extended period of travel during which you a) crossed a major body of water on a steam boat, b) traversed a continent, or c) floated down the Mississippi River on a log raft, you do not get to use the word 'journey'. So, just to clear up any lingering misunderstanding, a 10 week primetime network dating show is not a journey.

In fact, I would go so far as to say that the word has been so diluted, so overused, that it should be placed on sabbatical. We should not use it for a while. 'Journey' is tired. It wants to rest.

In the meantime, here are some suitable alternatives: excursion, expedition, odyssey, quest, promenade, ramble, sojourn, wayfaring.


Feel like buzzing about buzzwords? Holler at me.

This is Why We Can't Have Nice Things: A Thanksgiving Story

I should begin by describing the ring. It belonged to my great-grandmother Joyce, whom I never met. It was her wedding ring. It's small; white gold with two diamonds. Kind of an art-deco feel. Tons of sentimental value. I wear it as my wedding ring, but on my right hand because it doesn't match my engagement ring. Kinda quirky, but it works for me.

When it slipped from my fingers and dropped down the air conditioning vent on Thanksgiving morning, I felt oddly calm. Almost amused.

I'll be damned. Nothing but net. What are the odds?!

If you've never examined the inside of an air conditioning duct, I highly recommend it. I had not given much thought to what lies beneath the floor of my home and was surprised to discover a spacious system of pipes, an intriguing assortment of debris, and, thankfully, no spiders. After a few cautious, rubber-gloved swipes of the duct failed to uncover the ring, I called in reinforcements in the form of my pragmatic, level-headed husband.

Reason #28 why I know I married the right guy:



Our first attempts at locating the ring were rudimentary: a borrowed flashlight (courtesy of Gentleman C, our enigmatic neighbor) and a compact mirror. But with only an hour left until turkey-time at mom's house, we knew we'd have to step up our efforts. What a sight we must have been: Chuck crouched over the vent weilding a spatula and flashlight and me perched nervously nearby, one eye on the clock.

We'd drawn several spatula-fulls of dust and dirt from the vent when Chuck received a flash of inspiration. "I need a CAMERA!" he called, his voice echoing through the duct.



And thus we saw our first glimpse of the tiny ring, stranded several feet back in the duct. (That's it there in the photo--the little shiny object in the veeeeeery back.) Using the camera, we were able to determine the placement of our scooping tool in relation to the ring. Unfortunately, the spatula was just too short to reach the little sucker. (See picture below.)

We needed something longer. Something retractable. We needed... A SWIFFER! I raced to the kitchen and uncovered my Swiffer retractable cleaning wand. With the addition of a piece of cardstock it became a glorious scooping mechanism, and I felt truly smug and ingenius. (Except for the fact that I had, only minutes before, dropped a diamond ring down a vent. Except for that.) (See picture below.)

Like a surgeon and surgical nurse, we worked carefully, methodically. "Swiffer," Chuck would request. "Camera." The work was slow going, as the tiny ring was stubbornly entrenched and moved toward us only inches at a time. Beads of sweat gathered on Chuck's knitted brow, and I began to grow anxious--how was I going to explain to mom why I was late for Thanksgiving dinner? "Hi mom, I dropped your grandmother's ring down the vent. Sorry I'm late. Y'all go ahead and eat."?!?

Finally, after 45 minutes, Chuck had had enough. "You try!"

I kneeled beside the vent, peeked in to orient myself, brandished the swiffer, and scooped. And I GOT IT! On my first try! It was covered in dust but no worse for the wear.

And I'm never taking it off again. You'll have to pry it from my cold, dead finger.


So, in this season of thanksgiving, I am thankful for technology--digital cameras, swiffer wands. I am thankful that my ring was saved. And I'm thankful for my best bud, who always bails me out when I do stupid stuff.

Thanks for letting me have the glory, Chuck. I know you quit just in time to let me find the ring.

Additional Photos

Photos won't upload. More later.

The Most Difficult Sentence in the English Language

Several years ago, some classmates and I embarked on a quest to create THE MOST DIFFICULT SENTENCE IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. After much deliberation and painstaking pronunciation, we arrived a sentence so difficult to pronounce, so saturated with liquid consonants and tricky blends that I can't even say it in my head without becoming tongue-tied. Several of you are already familiar with this remarkable sentence, but in the interest of preserving it for posterity, I give you this heretofore unpublished conglomeration:

In the Christian Tradition, there's a particularly applicable rural brewery on the Marlboro reservoir.

Try saying THAT three times fast!



Your turn. Create THE MOST ______ SENTENCE IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. Words are fun.

Potato, Potahto

It's not a new topic, but I'm still intrigued by the differences in the way we pronounce words. How do you pronounce the following:

Grocery--
Gro-shery or Gro-sery?

Envelope--
In-velope or On-velope?

Mature--
Ma-chure or Ma-tour?

February--
Feb-you-ary or Feb-roo-ary?

Coupon--
Koo-pon or Kyoo-pon?

Due--
Doo or Dyoo?

Do you know anyone who's still hanging on to the "hw" sound, as in "hwat" (what) or "hwen" (when)?

What pronunciations really grate on your nerves?

Fax Spammer: A Limerick

Dear fax spammer, you don't seem bright.
Why send your fax spam overnight?
Cause everyone knows,
In the trash can it goes.
If it's there in the tray
When I come in today,
I'll discard "Free Vacation! Five Nights!"

Here, I'll Give You a Topic

I sense you may be having trouble getting started on your lists. Let's practice together.

LAST NAMES THAT SHOULD BE PHASED OUT:

1. Butts

2. Hyman

3. Weiner

4. Pugh

5. Hogg

6. Pigg

7. Koch

8. Fuchs

9. Hooker

10. Sweat

11. Ball

12. Hickey

13. Bastardi

Great Ideas for Which I Cannot Take Credit

(But would, if I thought no one would know better)

1. Southwest Eggrolls

2. ok go Treadmill Dance

3. Haiku

4. Food TV

5. Daylight Savings Time

6. Leslie Basham, the Landers (United Auto Group) Spokeswoman

7. Formula 409

8. The "What If Dr. Mayo...?" Game

9. The "Good" Ice

10. McSweeney's Internet Tendency Lists

As you may know, McSweeney's Internet Tendency is the online contingent of the quarterly journal McSweeney's. This quirky publication is the brain-child of Dave Eggers, writer-extraordinaire and my potential soulmate. I secretly hate Eggers because he is infinitely more creative and talented that I can ever hope to be, yet also suspect that, were we ever to meet, we would be instant and lifelong kindred spirits. What can I say? Some people lust over handsome movie stars; I go for geeky writer-types.

But I digress. The point of this entry was not to elaborate on the theme "I Heart Dave Eggers" but to present a challenge. You see, McSweeney's Internet Tendency features a section devoted to lists composed by readers. Recent list topics have included: "Phrases on the Marquee at the Local Strip Club to Cater to a More Literate Crowd," "Jokes Made by Robots, for Robots," and "Prescription Drug or Metal Band?" The lists have become so popular that they've been compiled into a book: MOUNTAIN MAN DANCE MOVES: THE MCSWEENEY'S BOOK OF LISTS. I insist you visit the website immediately and often. http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/lists/

Now for the challenge: I am certain that the collective genius of Compulsive Analysis's dedicated readers (at most recent count, approximately 5 people) can yield several outstanding lists suitable for publication on the website, and, if we're lucky, even in a future anthology! Not only will you garner fame and glory, there will also be fewer degrees of separation between me and Dave. So, get crackin', people. Start churnin' out the lists. Choose your best and submit it to lists@mcsweeneys.net, and of course, post it as a comment HERE so we can all enjoy your humor and brilliance. If your list is published by McSweeney's, _The_Analyst will personally buy your dinner.

Sports Autism

Those of you who follow SEC football may have noticed that my home state's own Arkansas Razorbacks are having a pretty good season. The Hogs are always big news around here, but this season, it seems they're all I hear about. The world shuts down on Saturdays, while the entire population of the state sits, transfixed, in front of the television. The air is thick with anticipation as the Hogs continue their glorious winning streak.

This presents a problem for me. Don't tell anyone, but...I don't care.

Now, before you go hyperventilating, let me say that I have nothing against the Hogs. I'm all for state pride. I much prefer their regal red uniforms to the unsophisticated, ahem, neon orange worn by other teams who shall remain nameless. I quite enjoy the snappy Razorback Fight Song. I even get a kick out of the whole Woooooo Pig Sooooie thing. But I cannot, for the life of me, make myself care about football. Or any other sport, for that matter.

Since junior high school, I’ve struggled to understand why I’m not like everyone else. But a few weeks ago, I discovered a clue. A window into my psyche. I heard about a study in which researchers tracked the eye-movements of people with autism as they watched movies. People with autism, it turned out, don’t seem to follow the plot of the movie with their eyes. They don’t focus on characters faces. They don’t focus on objects to which the characters refer. Their eyes dart around the screen in completely different patterns than people without autism.

Aha! I thought. Now I understand! I don’t track the action in a sporting event in the same way other people do! Even when I try to focus on the game, I lose track of the ball, become distracted by people in the crowd, or have trouble interpreting important plays. It’s not that I intentionally hate sports, I’m just sports autistic.

If you, too, struggle to enjoy sporting events, take this diagnostic quiz to determine whether you might suffer from sports autism:

1. Do you find watching a televised sporting event about as exciting as staring at a blank wall?

2. During a post-game discussion of an important play, have you ever remarked, “was that before or after the band played?”

3. At sporting events where you personally know the players, do you find it difficult to recall friends’ jersey numbers, yet remember what outfits the majority of the members of the crowd wore?

4. Are you able to track the movements of the hot-dog man but unable to determine how the ball got way over there?

5. When sitting near the foul line at a baseball game, do other members of your party fear for your safety and repeatedly caution you to duck?


If you answered yes to three or more of these questions, you may be sports autistic. There is no known cure for sports autism at present. However, as awareness is raised, so too, is hope.

Has your family been touched by sports autism? Share your story. Compulsive Analysis is here to provide support.

Get Thee Behind Me, Pottery Barn

This is an exciting time to be a Little Rock resident--the whole town is abuzz with the news of THREE new shopping centers. It seems every conversation contains the phrases "Did you hear we're gettin' a Parisian" or "They're puttin' in a Williams-Sonoma." Our Starbucks quotient will have increased threefold by Christmas. Yes, these are exciting times.

Though I preach fiscal restraint at my monthly houseshold finance committee meetings, I was drawn like a moth to a flame to the new Midtowne Shopping center, a mere two blocks from my office. Perhaps, I thought, I won't find anything I want to purchase. Maybe Pottery Barn, Ann Taylor Loft, Bombay Company, White House Black Market, and Williams-Sonoma won't have anything good. Ha!

My resolve held up through Ann Taylor Loft and White House Black Market. Bombay Company hadn't put out their full product line yet, so I made a quick trip around the showroom and beat a hasty retreat. Even Williams-Sonoma was no match for my iron will--I rationalized that in order to justify a new set of copper pots and pans, I'd need to cook more than once a week (I'm a liar. Once a month.).

But as I approached the gleaming storefront at Pottery Barn, I felt my self-control begin to weaken. I'm not sure exactly what happened while I was in the store--it was all a whirl of brushed stainless steel, clever desktop organizers, charming serving dishes, and timeless, attractively-upholstered furniture. Suffice it to say that 124 bucks later, I emerged from the store loaded up with two honeysuckle-scented diffusers, one candle, and a bottle of room spray.

What, you might ask, would compell an otherwise rational person to spend $124 on honeysuckle-scented knick-knacks? Satan. The devil made me do it. Pottery Barn is in league with the devil.

Pottery Barn's marketing and design teams seem intent on making average people believe their lives would be better if only they owned a Manhattan Armchair in Everydaysuede or an Emmett Occasional Table. Consider the lifestyle PB peddles to your subconscious--buy this Rhys Office Suite and your desk calendar will be covered with dinner dates, trips to Paris, and shopping lists for wine and cheese parties; buy this modular storage unit with dowels for wrapping paper and pockets for tape and ribbon and you, too, can partake in the joys of stress-free gift wrapping. Sometimes the message is more sinister: "You mean you don't own a Westholme Cabinet in which to display books on photography and philosophy? How quaint."

PB's diabolical brilliance consumes its customers, tricks them into believing that happiness is just 12 placesettings of beaded bronze dinnerware away. Set one foot into the den of iniquity that is a PB retail store and you're immediately flooded with avarice, covetousness, and lust.

So this Christmas, I refuse to patronize Satan's Houseware Imporium. I'm boycotting.

Oh, who am I kidding. I'll be back. But next time, I'm carrying holy water.