Overheard in the Amish Market

Last Saturday Rob, Maggie, Tom and I enjoyed a delicious Amish Market lunch, fueling ourselves with all of the traditionally heavy carbs, fats and sugars we needed to do some serious hunting and gathering at Barnes and Noble, our next stop. The restaurant was crowded, and as a result I was sitting less than two feet from a lovely woman of a certain age, who was tastefully dressed, coiffed and made up. Her companion was wearing a faded baseball cap, a wrinkled polo shirt, a paunch and sensible cream leather cross-trainers.

She asked him, “When you gave me that sheet on the Botox, was there something I was supposed to get from that?”

“Nah,” he replied, “I was just jerking your chain.”

Silence. Then she said, “So, do you think I need some?”

And I thought, dude, your sense of humor needs a serious overhaul.

Things That Are Orange

This weekend I bought two books with orange covers. Then I went looking for other orange items around my house. Here are some of them.




Orange is such a happy color.

:-)

Wordplay

I do a lot of editing, and the documents I work on often contain repeated words. And as I read those documents over and over in slightly different versions, I have noticed that some words, when you see them again and again, become stranger and stranger.

"Blog" is one of those words. Repeat it to yourself: blog, blog, blog blog blog....it starts to seem like the name of a space alien, some little goggly-eyed guy with a green knob sticking out of his head. “Zone” is another example, because anything beginning with a Z can sound like a buzzing insect, and long Os are particularly goofy, maybe because the lips are pursed in a funny position. Try it—zoohne zooohne zoooohnne. Add to this category any word that combines two others and then requires that you pronounce them differently, like “feather.” If just once you notice that the word is composed of “feat” and “her” you’ll never again be able to view it as it’s supposed to be. See what I mean?--Feat Her. Gotcha.

Today I am editing a brochure about charitable giving in which the word "bequest" appears frequently, and I'm becoming fixated on it. It’s not that “bequest” is particularly strange looking—bequest, bequest bequest—although you can start to rumble around over the “kwest” part, just because it’s got that lovely kwaaaa sound, kwa-est kwa-est kwaaa-est!

The thing that’s fascinating about “bequest” is that it doesn’t mean what it seems it should. A bequest, of course, is a legacy, which is a noble enough thing. But if you read it repeatedly it in its component parts, it begins to loom as a large and dramatic call to action--Be Quest! It’s inspiring! It’s King Arthur’s knights riding off on their fiery steeds, seeking the Holy Grail! We all must Be the Quest!

Or perhaps I just need to get out more.

Game Show

A few nights ago I went to a reading by the fabulous mystery writer Laurie King. (Parenthetically—and I wonder, is one using “parenthetically” correctly if the material is actually inside parentheses?—you should read her books. She’s an awesome storyteller, and an engaging and witty speaker, too.) After the presentation and book signing, I sat at a table in the lobby until my friend Lisa, who had organized the event, was ready to leave for dinner.

As I waited, a little family consisting of pretty long-haired Mom holding pretty baby, handsome Dad and a girl barely out of toddlerhood walked by. The little girl, who had ringlets and was wearing a bright flowered dress, glanced up and I smiled. She planted herself directly in front of me and held up three fingers.

“Three, are you three years old?” I asked her. She nodded.

Next she pointed to the baby in her mother’s arms, who was wearing a flower-covered pinafore with a tiny pink t-shirt. “Sophie,” she said.

By now I was catching on. “Oh, is her name Sophie?”

She nodded again, and responded, “Isabella.”

“Isabella? Is that your name?” Again the little nod.

“Isabella is a beautiful name. There was a queen named Isabella. Are you a queen?”

Isabella shook her head emphatically and looked a trifle annoyed. At this point I realized that she and I were playing Jeopardy. She gave me the answer, and I was to provide the question. And I had broken the rules. So I waited for the next response, which was:

“The park.”

“Oh, are you going to the park now?”

Affirmative.

“Before ice cream.”

“Oh, you’re going to play at the park and then get ice cream.”

We could have gone on, but Sophie was getting a little fussy. So after chatting for another minute, Mom gently urged Isabella towards the door.

Isabella held up her hand with the little moist palm facing me. I almost expected her to say “Wait!” or even “Hark!” but she just opened and closed her fist three times, smiled quickly and skipped away. No words were needed. Isabella already had all the answers.

Update: The Birds Are Winning

(See "Sacrifice" post for back story.)

The fern is looking worse. I was so pleased that it was the first thing our dinner guests saw when they arrived yesterday evening.

Well, I would have been pleased, were I Morticia Addams.