What Happened Next: The Suzy & Danny Saga Continues

We now return to the ongoing saga of Suzy Sunshine and Danny Danger. If you haven't read the first part of this story, you might want to start here . If you have read that, then welcome to Part 2. As I've said before, I don't know where I'm going with this story, but wherever that is, it's been fun getting there. Hope you enjoy it!

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Danny Danger awoke to find his arms and legs entangled with the arms and legs of a lovely young lady. Immediately, he started getting ideas, and they weren't good ones. He tentatively reached for her face and was about to touch her cheek – an oddly tender action for a ruffian like himself – when a roar erupted from the wilderness behind him.

It was the surprisingly agile, middle-aged woman whose purse and Volvo he had recently stolen. She had pursued Danny on foot while he was driving the Volvo away, and had been pacing him remarkably well, to the point where he expected any moment to see her flying over the top of the car and blocking out the windshield with her smart suit jacket and tweed skirt, forcing him to stop the car. He had been about to banish such a ludicrous thought when the surprisingly agile, middle-aged woman did just as he had imagined, and blocking his view of the road, forced him to jump the curb and stop the car near the entrance to the park. She had jumped to the ground with now-not-so-surprising speed and reached for the driver's side door when Danny swung the door open abruptly and knocked the woman flat on her back. He made a break for the woods, expecting that the middle-aged woman would gratefully accept the gift of taking her car back and that would be the end of it.

Danny had been so very wrong in his assumption, and here again was the surprisingly agile, middle-aged woman to prove it. She stood above him, gripping a substantial-looking branch in both hands, and appeared to be about to plunge it down on his face with another primeval roar when Danny, still entangled with the lovely young lady, rolled them both a few feet away, deftly avoiding the blow.

The enraged woman let out a deafening screech and lifted the branch again and took a step in Danny's direction. But then she stopped, and dropped the branch, looking confused and more than a little concerned.

"What are you doing to that lovely young lady?" the surprisingly agile, middle-aged woman shouted.

"Wouldn't I like to know?" replied Danny Danger, rhetorically.

"Who is she? And why are the two of you impersonating a life-sized pretzel?" the woman continued.

"I got no clue," said Danny, and reached for the bludgeoning branch which the woman had dropped. His move did not go unnoticed, as the surprisingly agile, middle-aged woman stomped on his hand with her Manolo Blahnik high-heeled shoe.

Danny cried out, and doubled over (as much as is possible while fully entangled in the arms and legs of a lovely young lady) in pain. The lovely young lady stirred a bit, then opened her eyes.

"Where am I?" Suzy Sunshine croaked.

"On the ground," replied Danny Danger, only inches from her face.

"What am I doing here?" she asked.

"Don't you remember?" said Danny Danger.

"I don't even remember who I am," Suzy replied.

Danny thought fast, which was quite a feat for him. "You're my girlfriend."  Danny looked up expectantly at the surprisingly agile, middle-aged woman, trying to gauge the degree of her belief in his ruse.

"Do you really expect me to believe that?" the woman said, and bent to pick up the branch. She held it in one hand and began tapping it repeatedly across her other palm.

"Uh..." Danny Danger stammered. "Yes?"

"Who are you?" Suzy muttered to Danny, still in a fog.

"I'm Danny, baby," he answered in a soothing tone.

"Danny Baby, I don't feel so good," Suzy said, and untangled one arm to rest it, palm up, against her forehead.

"Oh, Danny Baby..." cooed the surprisingly agile, middle-aged woman with a sneer. "...you still have some explaining to do."

"Whaddya mean?" Danny replied, looking as clueless as he was.

"Why'd you steal my purse and my Volvo, Danny Baby?" she said, still tapping the branch across her palm.

"Oh, that. Well, I was trying to get to my girlfriend. She was in trouble."

"And how did you know she was in trouble, on the other side of the park?" the woman challenged him.

Danny, though not technically on his feet, was quick on his feet, and answered, "Because I have ESPN. I know things ahead of time. Things that are going to happen. I'm like, you know, physic."

"You're physic? And you have ESPN?" the woman said, looking as skeptical as she was. "Well, Danny Baby, if you're so physic, then why don't you tell your 'girlfriend' there what her name is."

Danny shivered involuntarily, though it wasn't cold outside. He turned to look at the lovely young woman. She looked like a Debbie, or maybe a Margaret. But he wasn't sure. He looked her full in the face for the first time and was struck by her beauty. She was utter perfection. That was it!

"Her name is Perfection. Utter Perfection," Danny replied. "But I just call her Utter."

"Udder is an awfully strange name for such a beautiful young lady," the surprisingly agile, middle-aged woman said, looking consistently skeptical as before.

"I didn't say Udder, I said Utter. You should listen better next time, lady!" Danny Danger spat hatefully. Then he turned to Suzy Sunshine and again reached out to touch her cheek. 

When his fingers made contact with her face, the dazed young lady swatted at him with the hand she'd held against her forehead.  "Don't touch me!"

Danny grimaced slightly, then turned and smiled at the surprisingly agile, middle-aged woman. "We had a fight this morning. The usual stuff. You know. Does the toilet paper roll go on over or under? I say over, but Utter, she says under. It's the, you know, the old-age question."

"Who are you calling old?" the middle-aged woman screeched, and tapped the branch against her open palm a few more times for emphasis.

"Certainly not you, ma'am," Danny stammered, which was becoming a habit with him. "Listen, we're just having a conservation here. Nobody needs to get hurt."

"Danny Baby?" Suzy called out, and Danny turned instantly, as though drawn to her in some way.

"Yes, Utter, dear?" Danny cooed, and frowned at himself. Danny Danger don't do cooing, he thought.

"Why is that woman being mean to you?" Suzy whined.

Danny turned and glanced quickly at the surprisingly agile, middle-aged woman, then turned back toward Suzy. "Well, Utter, it's like this. I sorta, borrowed her car for a few minutes, because I was trying to get to you as quick as possible. I knew you was in trouble. You know, on account of our fight this morning?"

"I don't remember our fight this morning," said Suzy, and she began to weep silently.

"Then neither do I, honey. It's all forgotten. It's in the past," Danny replied. Then, to seal the deal, he turned to the other woman, nodded his head and gave her a quick thumbs-up, then returned his gaze to the lovely young woman he called Utter, and planted a soft kiss on her cheek.

Danny Danger looked back at the surprisingly agile, middle-aged woman as if to say, Okay, show's over, everybody can go back home now. But she was not impressed.

"If any of that is true, and I seriously doubt that it is," replied the woman, "it still doesn't explain why you took my purse."

"Oh, that," said Danny, and thought quickly again, making his head hurt a bit. "Well, that was just, um, a cry for help. You know, I'm not a real good person and I, uh, wanna get my life back on track. So I stoled your purse, and that was, like, a cry for help. So you, or someone would, like, stop me. Kinda, you know, do an invention on me and send me to get rehabitated."

The surprisingly agile, middle-aged woman stopped tapping the branch against her palm, and looked long and hard at Danny, obviously confused. "You make my head hurt," she said.

"I know the feeling," replied Danny. He turned toward Utter/Suzy, then back toward the other woman. "So, um, are you gonna let me go?"

The surprisingly agile, middle-aged woman hesitated, as though pondering Danny's fate, which in fact she was doing. Then she spoke: "I will let you go, on two conditions. First, that you give me back my purse, with all the money that was in it. Second, that your 'girlfriend' Utter will agree to check you into 'rehabitation', as you call it, no later than tomorrow morning."

Danny looked at her, a little confused, thinking that her two conditions sounded more like four or five. But that was probably because he was only half-listening. He turned back toward Utter/Suzy, winked at her and smiled. Still looking her way, he said: "So, Utter, whaddya say? Sound like a deal to you?"

Suzy Sunshine, still trying to clear her head from the impact of her fall, just nodded her head dumbly at the strange man with whom she was bodily entangled.

Danny turned back to look at the surprisingly, middle-aged woman, and was surprised to see that she had already gone. Her purse, which had been wedged in between Danny's lower back and Suzy's right shoulder, was also gone and presumably all the money with it.

"Cool," crowed Danny Danger, then turned to gaze again at the lovely young woman with whom he was still imitating a life-sized pretzel. "So, now what do we do?"

Suzy Sunshine squinted at Danny, trying to make out his face clearly. She thought he sort of looked like a man she'd once seen on a wanted poster at the post office. But she couldn't be sure. She didn't even remember who she was, much less what a post office was, even less than that what reason she'd have had for ever seeing this man's face before today. But he seemed friendly enough, and wasn't bad to look at, either.

So Suzy replied, with as much energy as she could put into it: "I'd like to have my legs and my other arm back."

Danny grinned, struggling to wriggle free from the heap that they had become. "And then?"

Suzy raised one eyebrow and smiled wryly. "We'll see..."

TO BE CONTINUED...

Things I Find Fascinating: Peculiar, Preposterous, And Positively Perplexing Pennsylvania Place Names

Okay, so I've been pondering over this one for a long time, well before I started blogging. I have a friend who once lived in Pittsburgh, and he brought to my attention the preponderance of peculiar place names across the state of Pennsylvania.

For some reason (or probably for lots of various reasons), Pennsylvania seems to have a large number of oddly named villages, towns, and cities. I'm sure there's a long and storied history behind each one, which I won't go into detail to relay. This is just an observational entry, for entertainment purposes only.

Before I go on, I have friends who originally come from Pennsylvania, as well as friends who currently live there. This post isn't intended to offend any of you who may have lived, or currently live, in or near any of the places mentioned below. It's not your fault they're named what they are. I just find them funny, and fascinating, and in some cases frightening. And I hope you will too.


1)  Hyperactive Hyphenation, Or Just Plain Wishy-Washiness?  Apparently, the founders of these towns couldn't decide what they wanted to call the town, so they took the top two choices (or three, in some cases) and slapped 'em together with a hyphen in the middle, and – voila! – the town is named. I'm sure in some cases this was a result of two smaller towns or communities joining together to form one slightly larger town, but that doesn't mean they aren't still funny. Can you imagine having to write some of these as part of your return address when sending a letter? You'd either run out of room on the envelope or develop a wrist cramp from all the writing! Here they are:

Cornwell Heights-Eddington

Homeacre-Lyndora

Shanor-Northvue

Nanty-Glo

Fairview-Ferndale

Lavelle-Locustdale

Grier City-Park Crest

Feasterville-Trevose

Wilkes-Barre

Salunga-Landisville

Stonybrook-Wilshire

(and my personal favorites) 

Reinerton-Orwin-Muir

and

Leacock-Leola-Bareville

2)  Biblical And/Or Holy Land Place Names:  These shouldn't be all that surprising, I suppose, as Pennsylvania has historically been home to quite a few Amish, Mennonite, and Quaker communities, among others. Here are a few examples:

Bethlehem

Ephrata

Nazareth

Emmaus

Mount Carmel

New Galilee

New Bethlehem

Lebanon

Bethany

not to mention

Philadelphia

and

The Promised Land State Park

(okay, so that one's not a town, but it fits the theme, so go with it!)

3)  Sheesh! What's With All The "Sh" Names?  You've probably heard of Shanksville, Pennsylvania, where passengers from Flight 93 caused their plane to crash to keep the terrorists on board from redirecting it to Washington, D.C. in order to destroy either the Capital or the White House on September 11, 2001. But there are tons of other "Sh" names among the many towns and cities in Pennsylvania. Here are a few of the more interesting ones:

Sheakleyville

Shiremanstown

Shoemakersville

Shippensburg

Shrewsbury

Shamokin Dam

Shirleysburg

Shelocta

Shenandoah

Shinglehouse

and the one I like best

Shickshinny 

4)  Tongue-Twisting Native American Names:  I really had to pick and choose with these, because there are tons of Native American place names scattered throughout the state. Personally, I think these names are beautiful – I'm totally not making fun of them. I just wish I knew how to pronounce them better. You give 'em a try:

Tunkhannock

Nesquehoning

Nanticoke

Hokendauqua

Catasaqua

Tonnoquenessing

and in honor of Groundhog Day a few days ago...

Punxsutawney

(if you don't already know, Punxsutawney is where the official Groundhog Day ceremony takes place each year; the groundhog who does or does not

see his shadow each February 2nd is nicknamed "Punxsutawney Phil")

5)  Blue-Collar Towns:  Pennsylvania has a long and proud history of being a center of industry in this country, with steel being its signature product. So it shouldn't be surprising that a number of towns throughout the state reflect that blue-collar philosophy. Here are a few examples I found interesting:

Factoryville

Mechanicsville

Mechanicsburg

Industry

Millville

Steelton

Steelville

Uniontown

and probably not a blue-collar reference

here, but always a great name for a town...

Rough And Ready

6)  Mountain Towns:  Pennsylvania has its share of mountains, being right in the center of the Appalachian mountain range. So it's appropriate that the state also has more than its share of towns named after mountains. Here are a few (albeit redundant) examples, aside from the aforementioned Mount Carmel:

Mount Joy

    Mount Nebo

Mount Carbon

Mount Gretna

Mount Pocono

Mount Union

Mount Wolf

Mount Holly Springs

Mount Oliver

Mount Penn
Mount Pleasant

Back Mountain

Laurel Mountain

Mountain Top

and last but not least...

Mountville

7)  The "Um...No Comment", Or "What Were They Thinking?" Department:  These questionably named towns, villages, and cities are, well, questionable. (Kids, cover your eyes!) I'm sure there's a good explanation for most of these...maybe...but I don't think I really want to know any details. So here – without comment – are a few of the ones "in question":

Bedminster

Pleasant Unity

Virginville 

Lucky

Pleasureville

Climax 

Sugar Notch 

Lickingville

and, oddly enough, in the heart of Amish country...

Intercourse

8)  Just Plain Weird Place Names:   This is the portion of our show where I just can't leave well enough alone. I've held back most of my smart-alecky comments up to this point, but no more! So, in no particular order or grouping, here are the rest of the oddball place names in Pennsylvania I found, with the obligatory commentary. Proceed with caution. (Not really, just be prepared for unbridled dorkiness!)

King Of Prussia  (because "Queen Of England" 
would've just looked too weird on the signpost)

Upper Black Eddy  (ironically, there is no 
Lower Black Eddy, nor is there an Upper White Eddy)

Moosic  (this falls in the "Village Idiot Who 
Can't Spell 'Music' Named Our Town" category)

Glen Campbell  (which is, ironically, NOT named after the country singer)

Jim Thorpe  (which is, not surprisingly, 
named after the famous athlete and Olympian)

Skyline View  (which isn't really all that close to a 
major city, so it probably doesn't really have one)

Ritzie Village  (which appears to be in the middle of 
nowhere, and probably isn't all that ritzy) 

Paint  (an artists' community, perhaps?)

Pillow  (a narcoleptics' community, maybe?)

Forty Fort  (probably also falls in the "Village Idiot" category)

Economy  (everything's cheap here, or is bleeding – either way)

Lemon  (you might want to go the next town over to buy a car)

Scalp Level  (I'd prefer my scalp to be left on, 
not leveled, thank you very much)

Picture Rocks  (because they didn't know how to spell Hieroglyphics)

Manns Choice  (obviously named before 
the Women's Liberation Movement)

Meshoppen  (ooh, do they have outlet malls?)

Sunnyburn  (tsk, tsk, shoulda brought your Coppertone!)

Wilburton Number One  (not be confused with Wilburton 
Number Two, which just goes by Wilburton – haha, suckers!)

Holidaysburg  (woo-hoo! every day's a holiday!)

Slippery Rock  (be sure to wear grippy shoes!)

Railroad  (let me guess, trains used to come through this town?)

Effort  (well, at least they TRIED to give the town a decent name)

Bittersville  (this town leaves a sour taste in your mouth)

Distant  (you can get there from here, but it'll take a while)

Hop Bottom  (home of Peter Cottontail)

Peach Bottom  (home of fuzzy fruit)

Fruitville  (home of all other fruit)

Stillwater  (ideal for wading)

Falls  (ideal for drowning)

Turkey City  (popular around Thanksgiving)

Bird In Hand  (common on Thanksgiving Day)

Goheenville  (they have their own cheer built into the town's name)

Rural Valley  (well, at least they know their place)

State College  (unimaginatively named by someone who
probably didn't graduate from Penn State University)

Trainer  (you go here to get into shape)

Loyalsock  (in honor of the one that DIDN'T get lost in the dryer)

When Almost Doesn't Count

I just finished watching the Super Bowl. The Patriots almost won it. But they didn't -- they lost. (Sorry, Pats fans!)

Which got me thinking... (Have you noticed that it doesn't take much to get me thinking about random things?)

In what other situations does almost not count? Of course, you've heard about horseshoes (the closer the better, but you don't have to ring the post to succeed) and hand grenades (like most explosive devices, close is still going to destroy stuff, although a direct hit is always preferable). But what else is there in the realm of almost? Here's what I came up with:

1)  A Passing Grade. While watching the Super Bowl, I was helping Mary grade papers (which, for some reason, I really enjoy doing, and she hates doing). On one particular quiz, if the student missed five questions, their grade would end up being a 67. Which is three points short of a 70, which is a passing grade. These kids were almost there, but they didn't quite make it. They failed. Oh well! They should have studied harder.

2)  Your Favorite Pants.  Have you ever noticed that when you're trying to lose weight, that one pair of pants you really want to be able to fit into are the last ones you actually can wear? Oh, they almost fit, but not quite. So you keep them until you can fit into them. Call it motivation. Or separation anxiety. Whatever. You just can't, or won't, let them go.

3)  Being On Time For Work.  I'm especially guilty of this. I always struggle to make it to work on time, and rarely succeed. So I end up having to work over, or take a shortened lunch, to make up for the lost time. Some days I have my act together and actually get there only five minutes after I'm supposed to. I'm almost on time. But I'm not. I'm late. (Slacker!)

4)  Understanding What People Are Saying.  Confession: I have a hard time listening. Not hearing, mind you. Listening. I try really hard, but I just don't catch everything. Sometimes I start listening after someone has started speaking, and sometimes I stop listening before they're finished speaking. I don't do it on purpose, I just struggle with this. Usually listening to almost but not all of what someone says completely destroys the context and meaning of what's being said. You might say "I don't feel really good." And if I don't hear the "I don't", I may reply "that's great!" Which might annoy you. And for most people to whom I do this, it does. Sorry about that.

I could go on and on with these, but I've still got papers to grade, so I'd better get back to that. At least this was a mildly diverting brain break. Well, almost.

Things I Don't Say Often Enough

Okay, this is going to be short and sweet. In thinking about the many things I say on a daily basis, I'm struck by the few, albeit crucial things that I don't say nearly enough. So here they are:

1)  I'm Sorry.  I'm often more prone to make excuses for what I've done to wrong someone, or perhaps shift the blame, or even try to justify my actions. But the fact is that sometimes I hurt people, and I just need to say simply and honestly, "I'm sorry."

2)  I Was Wrong.  This one often goes along with "I'm sorry", but is probably harder to say sincerely. For me especially, I don't like to admit when I'm wrong. And yet I'm wrong all the time.

3)  You're Beautiful.  This one's a little more specific to my wife. I always think she's beautiful, even when she doesn't think or feel beautiful herself. But I don't always say what I'm thinking. And I realize that it's in those low moments where she doesn't feel beautiful that I most need to tell her that she is.

4)  I Want To Help.  This one kind of hearkens back to my post of a few weeks ago, but in a more positive vein. Sometimes I'd like to help a friend, or family member, or coworker with something they're dealing with, but I don't want them to feel like I'm judging them, as though they need help. Or sometimes I know I should help them, but unfortunately my selfishness kicks in; because I know that if I offer to help, I'm committing myself to possibly more than I'm actually willing to do. So I hold back. I know my response in both cases is wrong, but sometimes I don't know how else to deal with it.

There are probably tons more of these I could come up with, but this is a good start for now. I've got my hands full just working on these.



WAR AND PEACE UPDATE:  I've completed 14% of this massive tome, and so far I'm still enjoying it. I even went five minutes over my intended time on the treadmill last night because I was so into it. Now that's saying something! I don't remember whether I set a specific date to finish the book, probably because finishing it at all is a big enough goal in itself. But I'll set one now, since it seems as though I'll actually get through it. December 31st -- simple as that. I can pace myself however I'd like, but as long as I'm done with it by the end of the year, I've accomplished my goal.

Short Story: "Dumpster Diver"

Okay, so this is a fragment of an idea. A short story in progress, if you will. I haven't come up with an ending for it yet, so it kind of leaves you hanging. Ideas, good or bad, just come to me sometimes, and I have to go with them as I get them. So don't shoot the messenger if you hate it, or if you're dying to know what happens next. I can't wait to find out what happens either, and I wrote it. So there!




Garry was looking for a bite to eat. It never ceased to amaze him how much good food people will throw away. What a waste! But it would not go to waste.

He was sure there was some validity to the common thinking, or science or what have you, that it was unhealthy or unsanitary to eat food that had been tossed away. That flies or other creatures would get to the food first and sully it, leave behind germs or even disease. It didn't matter to Garry. Eating food that could make him sick was much better than eating no food at all and eventually dying.

Thirst wasn't a problem. There were plenty of public restrooms and even the occasional water fountain (though those seemed to be harder to find these days) where he could get a free drink of water. As long as no one saw him doing it, he could even wash his face and arms in the restroom sinks. The rest of his body was not so fortunate as his face and arms, but that was the way it was.

Garry knew if he could maintain a modicum of cleanliness, at least the appearance of it, that he would be less likely to be thrown out of public establishments, unlike some brazen bums who walked in like they owned the place.

He could get away with walking around some places just as he was without looking over his shoulder every five seconds. Like Walmart, for instance. They'd let anybody in, and would only throw you out if they saw you stealing something. Even then, you might get lucky, as some of the employees understood what it was like to have nothing, and would look the other way if they pitied you enough.

But Garry never stole. He didn't have to. There were always things that people left behind, whether it be the remnants of a lunch or a ball point pen. He could find a use for it all, and he did.

He never begged for money, though every now and then a sympathetic soul would offer him a coin or two, or maybe even a dollar. He'd use it to buy himself an actual meal, if he ever scraped together enough to do so. Not that he needed to. There was always something to eat.

Dumpsters were an abundant source of edibles, especially the ones behind restaurants or grocery stores. Produce that had gone just beyond its out-date was an everyday delicacy for Garry. He actually ate a more balanced diet than most of the people who could afford to eat what they chose.

Garry's favorite place to check for food was the Burger King, just off the main drag. Customers often left their food half-eaten, and simply tossed it away. Burger King employees regularly took out the "garbage", but only haphazardly disposed of it. Often a bag would be peeking over the top of the Dumpster, and Garry needed only to reach up and grab it and abscond with it behind the Dumpster to see what treasures could be found.

It was a Thursday. He knew this because he had just passed the bank on Main with its digital scrolling message, which welcomed you to the bank and informed you of the day, time, and temperature (it was currently 87° F). Burger King had already weathered the lunch rush, and was languishing in the mid-afternoon drag before the after-work crowd arrived.

The young man named Marvin had just brought out three bags of garbage and tossed them in the Dumpster. (Garry had bumped into Marvin by mistake one time when he had gone inside to use the restroom, and had seen his name tag.) Marvin had done a better-than-usual job of getting the bags all the way inside the Dumpster, which would make Garry's job a little more difficult, but still doable.

Garry waited for Marvin to return to the restaurant, and for two cars in the drive-thru line to circle around to the other side of the building. He lifted himself up by his calloused hands, and peered inside the Dumpster. Garry spotted the recently added bags, but they were just out of reach. He leaned over just a bit farther, trying as best he could not to go too far.

He knew he was in trouble when he felt rough hands press against his lower back, pushing him forward faster than he was able to stop himself. Even as he tumbled into the Dumpster, Garry braced himself for what would surely be a hard fall. The many bags of garbage notwithstanding, he knew he far outweighed them and their cushioning power would be greatly diminished by his weight.

He was not mistaken. With a deafening thud, his head smashed into the side of the Dumpster even as his body careened downward. Garry hit the bottom with one leg bent beneath him, and an arm twisted backward in the wrong direction.
A series of sickening snaps confirmed what the simultaneous wave of pain was already telling him. His left leg and his right arm were badly fractured.

Garry could only cry out in pain, helpless to form words he knew would be of no use anyway. But his cries were short-lived. Gradually but definitively, the blackness engulfed him, and he lost consciousness.



P.S.  If you have any ideas of what should happen to Garry next (no, he's not dead, he's just unconscious), leave me a comment, or two, or twenty. You may just spur me to finish the story sooner than I might otherwise.

My Comical "Career" As An Athlete

You wouldn't know it to look at me now, but I used to play sports. Kind of. Sort of.

I say kind of, because I kind of played the games they way they were intended to be played, only not so well as most people.

I say sort of, because although I was on various teams, I spent more time watching from the sidelines than actually playing. There's a reason for that. I had smart coaches. They knew what they had to work with.

Let me explain.

Until about the age of twelve, I couldn't care less about any sports. I didn't want to watch them on television, and I certainly didn't want to play them. I didn't even like to go outside much when I was a kid.

Then around the time I hit my teenage years, all of a sudden I loved baseball. Loved to watch it on TV, begged my parents to take me to games. (My birthday present when I turned 14 was a family trip to Spring Training games in Florida, where I saw – and was snubbed by, while seeking an autograph – my favorite player, George Brett in person for the first and only time.)

Since I was still only in junior high, there wasn't much chance that I could play baseball on any team at school. We only had a varsity baseball team.

I didn't want to try to play in any city league, because a) I knew I wasn't good enough, and b) that would mean I'd have to meet new people and make new friends, which I was – and still am – horrible at doing.

So I would play in the backyard with my cousins, the neighbors' kids, my dad, or basically whomever would be willing to come out and play. I loved the game with a passion, and thought I could actually play. In backyard baseball, it's easy to look and feel like a star. After all, you only have to hit the ball into the next person's yard to get a homerun. And I could do that with my eyes closed, from both sides of the plate (I'm a switch-hitter). I began to dream, probably naively, that one day I would be a major league baseball player, like my hero, George Brett.

So, once I got to ninth grade, I decided to try out for baseball. That didn't work out so well. First of all, at the time I was skinny, and a very fast runner, but I had no endurance. Whatsoever. I still don't. So when the coach had us run laps around the field, I'd always get off to a blisteringly great start, then poop out by the time I got back around to home plate. And this was the first lap of ten, or twenty, or however many the coach decided to make us run.

At my school, they didn't really make cuts. If you tried out, you made the team. And so I did. But there's a catch to all this. They didn't make cuts, but they did only buy a certain number of uniforms. And how you did at tryouts determined whether you got a uniform, or didn't. I didn't get a uniform.

I wasn't discouraged, however. I figured if I kept coming to practice, kept trying as hard as I possibly could, that maybe – just maybe – they'd either, a) order a few more uniforms, and eventually give me one, or b) someone would get injured or become academically ineligible, and I would be able to take their spot on the team.

Unfortunately, neither of these things happened. I stuck with it, even finished out the season with the team. But I never got a uniform. Never got to play in a single game. Dream: postponed.

In my tenth grade year, I decided to put my ever-so-slightly enhanced stamina to good use and try out for the junior varsity basketball team. I had a basketball hoop at home, and had often played with my cousins, the neighbors' kids, my dad, and etc. I wasn't very good, but I wasn't horrible, so I figured what the heck?

Our basketball coach (a math teacher I had never really liked) liked to make us run sprints, and some other back-and-forth drill that I can't remember the name of, which just killed me. I thought I'd gotten better with my endurance. I was wrong. I would go home from practice with a painful stitch in my side every time. I could barely hack it, but I stuck with it.

I was never any good at shooting, which is sort of the point in basketball. But I was halfway decent at rebounding. Partly because I could jump fairly well from a standing position. I was shorter than most of the guys on the team (and on other teams that we played), but I could hold my own a little bit under the rim. You just couldn't depend on me to put the ball back up for a shot – no, not even right under the rim.

There was one thing I was REALLY good at in basketball, though. And that was fouling. I could foul with the best of them. If the team ever needed somebody to come into the game just to foul somebody, I would have been perfect for the job. But they never seemed to need that. In fact, they never seemed to need me at all. Oh, I was on the team; I even had a uniform. I just didn't see much action in the actual games.

I remember one game I played, because they couldn't not play me in this one. We were playing this really small school from some podunk town. Their junior varsity team – which should have been peopled with middle schoolers and lower-grade high schoolers at the least – appeared to consist of a bunch of ten-year-olds. I was a head or two taller than the tallest kid on their team – and remember, I was short! Needless to say, we blew these kids out of the water. It was merciless. I think the score was something like 86 to 6. And I played in that game. I even scored two points. It took me about three shots to make that one, but I made it! Only two points I ever scored. Ever.

By the end of basketball season, I knew that wasn't the sport for me. I would continue to play pickup games – after school, with kids in the neighborhood, with my cousins, etc. – over the years, but I would never again attempt to be a part of any organized team. And that was fine by me.

After my unsuccessful attempt at basketball, I decided to give baseball another try in my tenth grade year. Once again, I worked hard, showed up at all the practices early on, but didn't make the team. Well, I didn't get a uniform. But I was on the team. For a while at least. About halfway through the season, I got pretty sick of working my butt off in practice, knowing I had zero chance to ever play in an actual game, while some of the starting players would miss practice sporadically, often without an excuse, and were never penalized for their actions. I quit the team. Yes, I was a quitter.

Disheartened by my second failed season as a "baseball player" (I can't use that term without quotation marks just yet), I decided I would give soccer a try in my eleventh grade year. I had never really liked the sport, never played it with friends or cousins or my dad. I didn't even understand the game very well. But some of my closest friends were playing, and they loved it, so I figured I'd give it a whirl. Bad idea.

If I thought there was lots of running in baseball, and even more in basketball, I was in for quite a surprise when I started playing soccer. I must have caught them in an off year, because somehow, without having a clue what I was doing, I made the team. That still baffles me. They could have easily made up a "not enough uniforms" excuse, and I would have bought it hook, line, and sinker. But they didn't, and I was on the team.

As I mentioned before, I had very little stamina or endurance at the time. So the thought of me ever playing any offensive position was utterly ludicrous. The few times that the coach let me into the game – usually when we were annihilating the competition, or being annihilated – I played defense. I don't even remember the name of the position I played. I just remember them telling me, when people come toward the goal area attempting to score, go after them and try to kick the ball away from them. I wasn't exactly sure where I was supposed to kick it, or even remotely confident in my ability to make the ball go where I wanted it to, but I was pretty good at following directions, and that's what I did. If I'm not mistaken, when you kick the ball away from a player, it's called a "clear". If that term is correct, then "clearing" is the only thing I was ever any good at in soccer.

Well, that and penalty kicks. We had a really good goalie on our team – probably the best one in our league, among the various teams we played regularly. But every now and then, and sometimes more often than my teammates, I could score on him with penalty kicks. Of course, this was in practice, never in actual games. I always wanted to be called upon to attempt a penalty kick in an actual game. I think I could have excelled in that area. But it never happened.

Only one game in my one-and-only year playing soccer really stands out in my mind. We were playing another team from a podunk town, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Well, this school was working on fixing up their current soccer field, and it wasn't ready yet by the time we were playing them in this game. So we played the game, literally, in a corn field. Some farmer had cleared out this area in the middle of a corn field, fashioned it into some semblance of a soccer field, and that was where we would play the game. Keep in mind, this is a corn field, with stalks up to seven feet or higher.

Unfortunately for the other team, my coach decided to play me extensively in this game. And inexplicably, the guy with the ball kept coming my way. And inexplicably, I kept clearing the ball away from him. Which is what I was supposed to do, but the fact that I was succeeding at it was a refreshing surprise for all involved. Only problem was, with the corn stalks so high and close together as they were, I ended up losing  about four of the other team's soccer balls forever. Fortunately, they (or we) brought enough soccer balls to continue playing the game, but I'm sure the other school's athletic director was more than a little miffed at my "clearing" half of their soccer balls into oblivion. Oh well!

That was the only year I ever attempted to play soccer. Needless to say, they didn't want me back the next year, and I didn't want to go back. But there was always baseball, right? Sort of.

I did try out for baseball in my eleventh grade year, went through the motions of showing up for all the practices, working my butt off, etc. and fully expected the same results as the past two years. Not this time. Not only did I get a uniform, but I actually got to play on a regular basis.

Hold your horses! This still doesn't end well, believe me. We had a rule in our league that whenever the pitcher or the catcher got on base, you could pinch-run for him, and the pitcher or catcher could then return to the game in the next inning. The pinch-runner could come in any number of times and run for the pitcher or catcher, and often did.

Well, as I said before, I was no long-distance runner, but I was pretty fast for short distances. Like first to second, or second to third, or third to home. So the coach began to use me as a pinch-runner. I did pretty well at it. It was no glamor job, but it was a somewhat important role, and I was all too happy to have it. I even made it up to bat a couple of times that year – struck out both times. Such is life.

We had a good season, though – we might have even won our state championship, though memory fails me as to whether that was in my junior or senior year.

I returned to baseball for my senior year, and landed pretty much in the same role as the year before. I had become a pinch-runner extraordinaire – if there is any such thing as that. If you counted advancing to the next base on a passed ball as a stolen base – and we did – I stole 10 bases my senior year. They'd actually sometimes pinch-run me just to steal a base. It was pretty incredible!

My "shining" moment of my senior year, though, came when one of our starting outfielders was temporarily suspended from the team for academic ineligibility. We were playing an away game, and we were short an outfielder, and for some strange reason, the coach decided to start me in the game to replace him. This could be my big chance – the one that I've been waiting for. Yeah, right! My eternal ineptitude was about to rear its ugly head one final time.

Our team had a great first inning – everybody was hitting. I don't know exactly where I was in the lineup, but I'm pretty sure it was near, if not at, the bottom. But somehow or another, I got up to bat in the first inning. Time to shine. I watched the first ball go by me for a strike. Then I swung half-heartedly at the second pitch, and missed. This was it – two strikes. I figured I would get a good pitch, because the pitcher thought I was overmatched. My goal was to swing as hard as I could, and kill it! Swing hard, I did. Kill it, I did not. I missed the pitch, big-time, and in so doing, strained or pulled a muscle in ribcage. I injured myself striking out – there's something to tell your grandkids.

I was in excruciating pain. But I walked back to the dugout to get my glove – mine was the final out in our monster first inning – and put on my poker face. No way I was going to miss this game because of an injury – this was my big chance! I trotted out to right field gingerly, every now and then grabbing my side to try and convince the pain to go away. It didn't.

Somehow or another, the other team picked up on the fact that I was hurt quicker than my own team did. Because the first batter up hit the ball in my direction. I ran for it as best I could, which wouldn't normally be a problem for me. But I was hurt, and I didn't make the catch. The ball fell in front of me, and I stopped it with my glove. I had to take my glove off and throw the ball in left-handed because my right side – I throw right-handed normally – was throbbing with pain. But my teammates didn't seem to notice.

The next batter up – also in on the fact that there was damaged goods out in right field – hit a screaming line drive down the right field line. I ran as far as I could, then dove to try to stop the ball. I missed it. The ball skittered away a good distance behind me, and the center fielder had to come over and pick the ball up and throw it back in. I'm pretty sure the hitter got a double or triple on the play, and the other runner scored. But I couldn't tell you that for sure. I was in a heap on the ground – finished.

The coaches knew something wasn't right. I was a bad baseball player, but nobody's that bad. I must be hurt. And they took me out of the game. So much for my big chance.

We had a good season that year, too – as I said, that may or may not have been the year we won the state championship. It doesn't really matter anymore.

That was the last time I ever attempted to play baseball. Dream: crushed.

Over the next few years, mostly after I'd already graduated from college (of course I didn't play any sports there), I played softball on our church league team, and did okay at it. I ought to – there's absolutely no excuse for not being able to hit a ball the size of a child's head that's coming at you at around four miles per hour.

Ironically, I became a catcher. Nobody had to run for me, but I wasn't nearly as fast as I had been in my high school days. I hit really well some years, and other years I was just average. But I enjoyed the game again. Even though softball is a weak facsimile of the real thing, I felt like a player again. And maybe for the first time.

I don't play sports much anymore. For one thing, I'm quite overweight, and for another, I'm quite out of shape. But I'm working on both of those problems. Maybe I'll give church softball another go this year. It's been a few years now since I played. But I still feel like a kid at heart. And maybe that's enough.

The Soaps

So, I was at the gym at lunch today, and a couple of the televisions they had on were playing soap operas. One of them I know was The Young And The Restless, the other one I'm not sure about. All of the TV's there play with the sound muted, but with the closed-caption "subtitles" running. I hadn't brought a book or my Kindle with me today, so while I was treadmilling away, I started watching what the "actors" and "actresses" (I use these terms lightly) were saying on the soap operas.

Yikes!

I recognize that these programs have a long history of success, especially The Young And The Restless (aka Y & R) – which I'm fairly certain every human being in this country (either willingly or by force) has watched at least a few times at some point in their lives. Seriously, every job I've ever had, if there was a television in the break room, at any point during the 12:30 to 1:30 hour, you were sure to see a minimum of five people crowded around the screen to watch Y & R and discuss the latest drama. It didn't matter if you hadn't seen a single episode in two or three years, you could catch right up. The only discernible difference might possibly be that the central character's little baby, who had just taken his first step two years ago, was now a teenager or was college-aged. But otherwise, you could pick right up wherever you left off and be fine.

Anyway, to make a long story longer, this got me thinking. If people can get paid to write dialogue that bad, why can't I? I mean, I have at least a modicum of writing skill, so I ought to be able to blow these people out of the water, right?

But then again, good dialogue probably isn't even necessary. Maybe it's not even wanted. Ingenious plotting? Nah, who needs that? Just slap some clichés together on a piece of paper, rehash some plot lines you've been using for decades – sometimes on different characters, often on the same characters – and you're good to go.

Then watch as even the subpar performers they've hired to act out this drivel struggle to say their lines with a straight face, wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it all, yet knowing that any shred of dignity they ever possessed as an actor is dwindling rapidly with each daily episode.

So here's my stab at a typical soap opera scene. I'm warning you – it isn't any good. It's riddled with phrases that I would try never to use in serious writing. But – if I'm successful in my attempt – it should end up being pretty much par for the course in the world of soap operas.

Here goes nothing (and I mean that):


ANDREA:  Oh, Granite, I'm so glad to see you. I've been so lonely.

GRANITE:  But I just left you twenty minutes ago. I told you I'd be right back.

ANDREA:  I know, and I tried to tell myself to carry on, but I didn't think I could bear one more second alone.

GRANITE:  Oh, Andrea, sweetie, you know I would never leave you.

ANDREA:  I want to believe that, Granite. Really, I do.  (dramatic pause)  But what about Melissa?

GRANITE:  What about Melissa?

ANDREA:  Did you tell her you'd never leave her, either? Before you broke her heart?

GRANITE:  Andrea, that was a long time ago. You know she means nothing to me anymore.

ANDREA:  It was last week, Granite! You left her standing at the altar. And for what? For what, Granite?

GRANITE:  (dramatic pause)  For you, sweetie. I did it for you. You know I never loved her as much as I love you. I could never love any woman as much as I love you.

ANDREA:  Oh, Granite!

GRANITE:  And besides, if I had married Melissa, I would have spent the rest of my life in misery, knowing that every moment I spent with her was a moment I couldn't be spending with you.

ANDREA:  Oh, Granite!  (crying now)

GRANITE:  Shh, shh, shh, shh. Dry your tears, darling. Look at me. I love you. And I will always love you.

ANDREA:  I know that, Granite. Really, I do. It's just that...Melissa...

GRANITE:  Stop it! I don't want to hear any more about Melissa. It's in the past.

ANDREA:  You're right, Granite.

GRANITE:  Your past on the other hand...

ANDREA:  My past? What about my past?

GRANITE:  Are you sure you don't still have feelings for Dorian?

ANDREA:  No...I mean, well...of course not, no.  (dramatic pause)  That was a long time ago, Granite. How could you even bring that up again?


GRANITE:  It was last week, Andrea. I don't know, call me crazy, but I think you still have feelings for him.

ANDREA:  For Dorian?

GRANITE:  Yes, for Dorian. You really loved him. 

ANDREA:  Yes, I did.

GRANITE:  And I think a part of you still does. 

ANDREA:  That's where you're wrong, Granite. You think you know me so well, don't you? Well, I've got news for you. You don't know me at all!

GRANITE:  I'm beginning to think you're right. You've changed so much lately. You're not the same Andrea I fell in love with.

ANDREA:  Oh, Granite! How could you say that?

GRANITE:  I'm just calling it how I see it. Your heart belongs to another.

ANDREA:  My heart belongs only and always to you, Granite.

GRANITE:  I hope you're telling me the truth, Andrea. Because if you're not, then what I'm about to ask you is going to be the biggest mistake of my life.

ANDREA:  (dramatic pause)  Granite, what are you saying?

GRANITE:  (drops down on one knee, looking up at her)  Andrea, you are the one bright spot in my otherwise gloomy existence. You are the glue that holds the pieces of my wounded heart together. And I don't ever want to spend another day in this life without you. Andrea Slater, will you make me the happiest man alive and do me the honor of becoming my wife?

ANDREA:  Oh, Granite!

GRANITE:  Is that a yes?

ANDREA:  Yes! Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! Oh, of course, Granite! Of course I'll marry you.

GRANITE:  I love you, Andrea Slater.

ANDREA:  And I love you, Granite Rockwell!

(There is a knock at the door.)

ANDREA:  Who could that be?

GRANITE:  I don't know. But whoever it is, they better have a good excuse for interrupting the happiest moment of our lives.

(Crosses to the door, and opens it. MELISSA stands there, arm in arm with DORIAN.)

GRANITE:  Melissa!

ANDREA:  Dorian!

MELISSA:  Hello, you two lovebirds...

DORIAN:  Surprised to see us?

(GRANITE and ANDREA simultaneously give us a blank stare, which could be interpreted any number of ways, as we cut to commercial.)

Dear Stupid, Wonderful Cat...

Dear Stupid, Wonderful Cat,

I love you dearly, but if tonight is anything like last night, I may be forced to strangle you with my bare hands.

You're fourteen years old. You've been around long enough to know that waking us up at 2:30 in the morning with repeated meowing may be effective at getting our attention, but is not the best way to endear yourself to your parents.

If you didn't get the hint the first five times I yelled at you -- "FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY, FREDERICK EYNSFORD HILL-CAT, WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT UP!" -- I really, really, REALLY wanted you to stop talking. But did you? No, you didn't.

How many times have we told you this before? There are only three valid reasons for waking us up in the middle of the night:


1)  There is an intruder in the house who is stealing all our stuff, and possibly intends to harm us.


2)  The house is on fire, and we are in imminent danger of asphyxiation from smoke inhalation.


3)  The Publisher's Clearing House Prize Patrol is at the door, waiting to award us with a ginormous check, which will allow us to retire early and travel the world.

Any other reason for waking us up at that ungodly hour is unacceptable, and will be responded to with unmitigated fury at worst, or severe annoyance at best.

Being lonely is not a valid excuse. Wanting to be petted is not a valid excuse. Being bored and seeking adventure in other parts of the house which we are occupying -- also not a valid excuse.

Do not be confused by the ultimate result of your plaintive pleas. You will not always be lucky enough to convince your mama to let you in so that you will shut the heck up. This was a one-time-only occurrence, not a new precedent we have set.

You have good hearing, I know you do. If you come to our door and hear snoring -- and you will, as both of your parents have recurring sinus problems -- this is not an acceptable time to announce your intentions to visit us.

I love you dearly, and in general, enjoy your company quite a lot. You are adorably cute, your meow -- known by most of your family members as a merp -- is really first-rate, and I miss you when you're not around. But not in the middle of the night. Never then.

Remember this, as in so doing, you may save your own life.

I love you dearly, but this has got to stop. Immediately. Or else.

Love,
Your Dad

Things I Find Fascinating: Chopped Liver And Other Food Clichés

Most of us, whether we're aware of it or not, use a plethora of oddball clichés on an everyday basis. But do we really know what they mean? Of course, we know what we mean by them, but do we really know where these phrases and sayings come from? Probably not, in most cases. Do we really care? Probably not, in most cases. But I care. At least enough to write a blog post about it. Today's focus is on food-related clichés. Some are widely in use, and some you don't hear quite as often as you used to in the past. But here they are nonetheless:


1)  A Dollar To A Donut – Have you ever heard or perhaps uttered the phrase "I'll bet you a dollar to a donut that..." What the heck does that mean? Well, according to Wikipedia.org, "Dollars to Donuts is a faux bet in which one person agrees to put up the same amount of dollars to another person's donuts in a bet (where a donut is considered to be worth much less than a dollar). Betting someone dollars to donuts is a rhetorical device that indicates that the person is confident in the outcome of an event; [however], it does not usually involve an actual bet with actual payoffs (either in dollars or in donuts)."

Well, that explains it much better than I ever could. But why donuts? Not really sure. Previous versions of the cliché include "dollars to buttons" and "dollars to dumplings." Apparently, someone tried to change it to "dollars to cobwebs" at some point, but that didn't really catch on too well. These days, a donut is probably worth a dollar or more, depending on where you buy it. Shoot, these days even a dollar isn't worth a dollar anymore. Maybe the phrase should be changed to "I'll bet you a dollar to a dollar..."


2)   Happy As A Clam – This one is a tad confusing. How can a clam be happy? It's a clam. It doesn't really have feelings, and if it did, why would be it happy? Its primary purpose in life is to be killed and eaten by humans and other carnivorous creatures. Now, when I'm eating fried clam strips at a seafood restaurant, I'm usually feeling pretty happy (unless they're overcooked and taste rubbery). But I'm fairly certain that the clam isn't too happy about being eaten. So where does this come from?

Well, apparently the phrase is a truncated version of the saying "happy as a clam at high tide". The thought behind this is that at high tide the clam is not only buried beneath the sand, but is also beneath the water. Therefore, it's harder for the clam to be dug up and eaten at high tide, and thus the clam is perceived to be "happy". Makes perfect sense when you think about it. Just don't think about it too hard. Because clams don't have feelings. They may be disappointed when they are dug up and may halfheartedly try to escape (rarely successfully), but that's instinct, not feelings.


3)  Are You Chicken? – This phrase is often used tauntingly to question the degree of another person's fear or apprehension. The origin of the word "chicken" to mean "afraid" is unclear. Some think it reflects the skittish nature of chickens in general. If you run toward a chicken, it will likely be unsure what to do, perceive you as a threat, and run quickly in the opposite direction. Whether this is actual fear or merely survival instinct is irrelevant – the chicken appears to be afraid of you and acts accordingly.

Another theory concerning the origin of the synonymy of chickens and cowardice is the story of "Chicken Little" from the popular children's book series. Chicken Little ran around proclaiming that "the sky is falling! the sky is falling!" because of one seemingly insignificant event involving a falling acorn.

Whichever origin is correct, if the question "Are you chicken?" is ever posed to you, the answer you would hopefully give in reply is "no". Unless you really are chicken. To which, if I may respectfully add, "Bock! Bock! Bock!"

There are lots of other great chicken clichés I could have used here, including "running around like a chicken with its head cut off" (which as we've seen before can be quite interesting and lucrative if handled improperly), "don't count your chickens before they're hatched", and "waking up with the chickens". But I had to pick just one, so there you go.


4)  Take (It) With A Grain Of Salt – This oft-used phrase means to cautiously accept what someone is telling you, while maintaining a degree of skepticism about its truth. The origin for this phrase, which goes quite a ways back, is best described by the historian Pliny, in his Naturalis Historia (ca. 77 A.D.):

"After the defeat of that mighty monarch, Mithridates, Gnaeus Pompeius found in his private cabinet a recipe for an antidote in his own handwriting; it was to the following effect: 'Take two dried walnuts, two figs, and twenty leaves of rue; pound them all together, with the addition of a grain of salt; if a person takes this mixture fasting, he will be proof against all poisons for that day.'"

The suggestion here is that potentially harmful effects can be tempered by the taking of a grain of salt. It doesn't discount the fact that what's being taken – or in the case of suspect advice, what's being told to you – could still harm you, but that the taking of the grain of salt, whether literally or figuratively, will make the inevitable outcome more bearable. In the case of the potentially untruthful, unhelpful, or unsafe advice, "taking it with a grain of salt" lessens the chances of its harming you by your less-than-complete acceptance of it. If that makes any sense at all. Hopefully, it does. And now, to me at least, so does the phrase. 


5)  Life Is Just A Bowl Of Cherries – This curious phrase is often used to denote that things are going smoothly, life is great, and all is right with the world. But why cherries? Well, apparently, the phrase "the berries", which would conceivably include cherries, meant either something that was great, or referred to one's wealth. If you had "the berries" or perhaps if your life was "the berries," you had it made in the shade with a spade and some jade. You were "the tops", so to speak. The actual phrase "Life is just a bowl of cherries" came from a song of the same title, the chorus of which went like this: "Life is just a bowl of cherries / Don't take it serious / Life's too mysterious / You work, you save, you worry so / But you can't take your dough when you go, go, go..."  All in all, very wise words for living.

But what if you, like me, don't particularly care for cherries? If "life is just a bowl of cherries" for me, then life is useless, and undesirable, and likely to be wasted. So I guess for folks like me, the phrase can be altered to include a bowl of whatever would signify the good life to me, or to you, specifically. I think I'll go with: "Life is just a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream." 


6)  Bringing Home The Bacon – This humorous phrase (I can't say it with a straight face) means, as you probably already know, to earn money, in particularly for one's family. It generally implies that the amount of money one is earning is not only sufficient to meet one's needs, but is more than enough for one to consider themselves wealthy. But why bacon?

The most common theory as to where the phrase originated is from the story of the Dunmow Flitch (um...Gesundheit?). Reading about it and even regurgitating the story behind it word-for-word is not only confusing, but rather boring. Basically, back in 1104 in Essex, England, this married couple somehow so impressed the Prior of Little Dunmow with their marital devotion (I don't think I really want to know how they went about doing that), that the Prior decided to award them a flitch (or side) of bacon as a result. Now, every four years the people in Great Dunmow, in Essex, do some kind of ritual demonstrating their marital devotion (again, TMI, don't wanna know), and are rewarded with bacon.

While I may never "bring home the bacon" sufficiently to be called wealthy, I would like to make it publicly known here and now and for all time that I love my wife dearly, devotedly, and delightfully, and anyone who wants to give me some bacon because of that fact is certainly welcome to do so. 


7)  In A Pickle – This also-hilarious phrase, is used to denote that someone is a difficult position, or a quandary, if you will. But what the heck? You can't fit inside a pickle, I don't care how skinny you are! So, where did this saying come from?

Well, apparently the earliest pickles were spicy sauces made to accompany meat dishes. The word "pickle" was later used to describe a mixture of spiced, salted vinegar that was used as a preservative for foods.

Later on, some really twisted writers (an oxymoron, of course) made up some fanciful stories – cautionary tales, really – about living people being added to the mixture of spices and sauces, either by accident, or intentionally as punishment for their misdeeds. If you were unfortunate enough to be purposefully or mistakenly added to the pickle sauce, you were said to be "in a pickle". Which would certainly qualify as being in a quandary, as no one in his or her right mind desires to be pickled and later consumed. That's just crazy talk! 


8)  Cut The Cheese – Yes, I'm going there. As most of you know (especially the more juvenile-minded like myself), to "cut the cheese" means to break wind – or to put it more crassly, to fart. But where did this most unusual of phrases originate?

Who exactly came up with the phrase is a seemingly unanswerable question. But when is a little clearer. First off, the word "cut" by itself has been used as a euphemism for breaking wind since the late 1800's. In polite company, one might say that they had "cut their finger", but what they really meant is that they had farted. Some sources from the same time period suggest that the phrase "cut no cheese" was used contemporaneously with "cut" by itself. However, the saying "cut no cheese" was used to describe something of no weight or value. Similar to how we might now say that something "doesn't pass muster," they would say back then that it "cut no cheese."

Ultimately, the association of cutting cheese with breaking wind is believed to derive from the fact that certain cheeses, while inherently stinky in and of themselves, instantly smell worse, or stinkier, once the cheese is cut. The sudden whiff of stinkiness that emits from a cut cheese far exceeds the stinkiness of the uncut cheese. I don't think I need to draw a correlation here between the two. You get it. 'Nuff said.


9)  Don't Cry Over Spilled Milk – Well, the meaning of this one is probably self-explanatory, but just in case it isn't, here's how Wikipedia describes it: "It is no use worrying about unfortunate events which have already happened and which cannot be changed." But why do we say it? A multiplicity of wildly varying theories abound.

One story says the phrase sprang from fairy lore, in which people would pour cold, creamy milk onto the ground outside their houses to attract fairies to come there; or alternately, they would surround their homes with "spilled milk" to appease the resident sprites, as a sort of shrine, so to speak.

Another theory says that the phrase originated during the Great Depression, when the price of milk as a commodity had fallen so low due to its overabundance relative to demand, that dairy farmers were subsidized by the state to destroy their surplus in order to bring prices back up to a profitable level.

The common sense theory, which I tend to like the best, is that it's utterly pointless to get upset about having spilled your milk. Yes it's wasteful, and yes it's going to be a pain to clean up. But you've already spilled it. So clean it up already! And move on. Life's too short to get upset by stupid stuff like squandered dairy products. 


10)  What Am I, Chopped Liver? – Why is it that, when feeling left out or disrespected by others, we so often utter this oddball question? Of course, it's rhetorical – no one is, in fact, chopped liver. So what do we mean by this saying?

Chopped liver is a traditional Jewish dish, consisting of cooked chicken livers that are chopped (or ground) and seasoned. While chopped liver is sometimes used as a sandwich filling, it is most often served as a side dish, and is never the main dish. Therefore, for someone to say that they feel akin to chopped liver is to equate themselves as less important and more expendable in the eyes of the person by whom they feel disrespected.

Most folks I know don't eat a lot of chopped liver. I don't either. Wouldn't touch the stuff. I don't even want any unchopped liver. But I can easily recognize that there are plenty of side dishes that are perfectly fine in and of themselves, yet will never be the star on the plate.

Since I don't do liver, the next time I feel slighted in some way, or I feel as though I am being treated as second-rate, I am going to personalize this cliché and pose the question: "What am I, steamed asparagus?" I just hope whomever I'm saying this to understands that I mean the question to be rhetorical.



(Sources: www.wikipedia.org, www.phrases.org.uk, Wiki Answers, and various other places on the wonderful World Wide Web.)